wmmmm 


?^<*AYiV4VV  '  *^/ ' 

■*V^<\V*'<  W  <^4  <^«  4  r«  ♦  4  *  '  ' 


a^^jjjjjjf^^ij;;;*,';^,^,^^^^^^ 


i^lJic'-^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


P 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/englishverse02lint 


'J 


English  Verse 


LYRICS 


XIXTH      CENTURY 


EDITED    BY 

W.  T.  LINTON  AND   R.  H.  STODDARD 


LONDON 

KEGAN  PAUL,  TRENCH,  &  CO.,  i  PATERNOSTER   SQUARE 

1S84 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  history  of  English  Verse  in  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury implies  more  than  appears  in  the  Verse  itself,  for 
granting  that  it  is  understood  by  contemporary  stu- 
dents— a  supposition  which  is  contradicted  by  literary 
history  in  general — its  origins  are  still  to  be  sought 
and  discovered.  Bibliography  enables  us  to  trace  its 
progress  from  year  to  year,  and,  if  it  be  carefully  stud- 
ied, enables  us  to  trace  its  intellectual  direction 
likewise.  Biography  is  also  of  service,  conducting  us 
through  its  special  province  like  a  guide  who  is  famil- 
iar with  the  ground  that  he  traverses  ;  and  history  is  of 
the  greatest  service,  provided  it  be  largely  written  and 
intelligently  read,  for  so  written  and  read,  it  authenti- 
cates and  justifies  all  that  it  embraces — the  violence  of 
passion  as  well  as  the  repose  of  power,  Thersites  and 
Ajax  as  well  as  Achilles  and  Nestor.  If  we  place  our- 
selves in  thought  on  the  threshold  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  and  look  back  with  critical  eyes  upon  the 
poetical  literature  of  the  eighteenth  century — or  upon 
the  small  portion  of  it  which  continued  to  be  read  at 
its  close — the  prospect  is  not  an  enlivening  one.  To 
say  that  it  was   in  any  large  sense  a  poetical  period 


0-4  ofrcr-f 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

would  not  be  true.  It  was  not  a  creative  period  like 
tlie  age  of  Elizabeth,  for  though  its  most  famous 
hands  cultivated  the  art  of  writing  tragedies,  and  pro- 
duced their  Catos,  Jane  Shores,  Distrest  Mothers, 
Mariamnes,  Sophonisbas,  Irenes,  and  what  not  besides, 
they  added  nothing  to  the  English  Drama.  The  crea- 
tive energy  of  the  eighteenth  century  exhausted  itself 
in  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  and  The  Dunciad.  Pope 
carried  the  satire  of  manners  and  of  character  as  far 
as  it  could  go  :  he  was  a  wit,  but  not  a  poet. .  Thomson 
tried  to  open  the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries  to  Na- 
ture, and  succeeded  in  a  measure,  though  not  nearly  so 
well  as  Collins  in  his  unrhymed  Ode  to  Evening,  or 
Gray  in  the  opening  stanzas  of  his  immortal  Elegy. 
The  Elegy  is  more  read  to-day  than  anv  poem  of  its 
time,  partly  because  it  is  the  most  perfect  specimen  of 
its  poetic  art,  and  partly  because  the  train  of  thought 
which  runs  through  it  can  never  be  dismissed  from  the 
human  mind.  It  will  live  as  long  as  men  live  and  die. 
It  was  surpassed,  perhaps,  by  certain  poetic  qualities 
in  the  Odes  of  Collins,  which  fell  dead  from  the  press 
about  four  years  before  it  was  published,  but  it  was 
not  surpassed  or  equalled  by  anything  else.  Looking 
back  upon  it  now  we  can  see  what  Gray's  contempora- 
ries could  not  see — that  it  was  a  great  landmark  in  the 
monotonous  waste  of  their  verse.  The  dead  level  of 
prose  to  which  Pope  had  reduced  all  metrical  writing 
surrounded  it  like  a  desert.  While  he  lived  the  springs 
of  his  genius  watered  the  roots  of  stately  palms,  but 
when  he  died  only  stunted  reeds  remained  to  show 
where  the  watercourses  had  been.  Ethics  had  dwin- 
dled into  didacticism,  and  the  heroic  measure  intojing- 


INTRODUCTION.  V 

ling  couplets  which  school-boys  wrote  for  pastime.  If 
we  had  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
and  had  shared  the  poetic  taste  of  our  contemporaries, 
what  would  we  have  had  to  read  ?  We  would  have 
had  to  read  The  Splendid  Shilling  and  the  Cyder  of 
Philips,  the  Pastorals  of  Pope  and  his  Essay  on  Crit- 
icism, Gay's  Rural  Sports  and  Shepherd's  Week, 
Glover's  Leonidas,  and  Shenstone's  Pastoral  Ballad. 
A  little  later  we  would  have  had  to  read  Young's 
Night  Thoughts,  Armstrong's  Art  of  Preserving 
Health,  Akenside's  Pleasures  of  Imagination,  Dyer's 
Fleece,  and  Grainger's  Sugar  Cane.  If  the  saccharine 
production  of  good  Dr.  Grainger  had  not  been  to  our 
liking,  and  it  is  possible  that  we  might  have  found  its 
sweetness  a  little  cloying,  we  could  have  taken  the  pre- 
scription of  another  physician — an  uncouth,  pock- 
marked Irishman,  who  had  studied  at  Edinburgh  and 
Leyden,  and,  after  travelling  about  the  Continent  on 
foot,  occasionally  playing  upon  the  flute  for  his  victuals 
when  his  funds  ran  low,  had  settled  down  in  London 
as  a  bookseller's  hack. 

We  could  have  read  Dr.  Goldsmith's  Traveller,  or  a 
Prospect  of  Society,  and  if  we  had  done  so  we  could 
not  but  have  felt  the  spell  of  his  frank  and  manly 
genius.  We  might  have  been  prompted  to  make  his 
acquaintance,  if  we  had  chanced  to  be  in  London  at 
the  time,  and  perhaps  the  acquaintance  of  his  bullying 
friend  and  patron,  the  great  Dr.  Johnson,  who,  if  he 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  us,  after  a  good  dinner  at  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  might  have  asked  us  to  visit  him  at  his 
lodgings  in  Bolt  Court,  where  we  would  have  seen  his 
strange  menagerie  of  pensioners — Robert  Levett,  prac- 


Vi  INTRODUCTION. 

titioner  of  pliysic,  poor,  stuttering  Miss  Jane  Williams, 
the  blind  poetess,  Miss  Carmichael,  Mrs.  Dumoulin, 
the  widow  of  a  writing-master,  the  negro,  Francis 
Barber,  and  that  pert  young  coxcomb  (cowed  there), 
Mr.  James  Boswell,  advocate,  of  Auchinleck,  Scot- 
land. Goldsmith  would  no  doubt  have  told  us  of 
Johnson's  kindness  to  him,  particularly  in  selling  the 
manuscript  of  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  releasing 
him  from  the  clutches  of  his  landlady,  who  insisted 
upon  his  marrying  her  or  settling  his  score,  and  have 
asked  us  to  subscribe  to  Johnson's  Shakespeare,  which 
we  would  have  done  gladly,  having  already  upon  our 
shelves  the  editions  of  Rowe,  Pope,  Theobald,  Han- 
mer,  and  Warburton,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Folios, 
which  we  had  inherited  with  the  old  manor-house  in 
Surrey.  Six  years  later  we  would  have  had  another 
poem  from  the  pen  of  the  ingenious  Dr.  Goldsmith, 
The  Deserted  Village,  and  the  public  journals  would 
have  informed  us  of  the  death  of  Dr.  Akenside.  They 
might  also  have  informed  us  of  the  death  of  one 
Thomas  Chatterton,  a  Bristol  boy  of  eighteen,  who 
was  supposed  to  have  poisoned  himself  ;  but  the  para- 
graph, if  we  had  seen  it,  would  have  had  no  signifi- 
cance to  us,  for  little  was  talked  about  then  in  the 
coffee-houses  except  the  letters  of  Junius  in  the  Public 
Advertiser.  The  dearth  of  good  contemporary  poetry 
in  the  seventh  decade  of  the  eighteenth  century  drove 
us  back  to  the  earlier  poets,  of  whom  we  could  not 
well  help  knowing  something  by  that  time,  since  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Thomas  Percy,  a  Northumberland  vicar, 
whom  wc  remember  to  have  met  one  day  in  the  cham- 
bers of  Dr.  Goldsmith  (the  very  day,  by  the  way,  in 


INTRODUCTION.  Vll 

which  the  little  daughter  of  a  fellow-lodger  borrowed 
the  coals  in  her  eccentric  scuttle),  had  published  in 
the  year  after  The  Traveller  three  solid  volumes  of 
Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry,  the  materials  for 
which  he  obtained  from  an  old  manuscript  collection, 
and  which,  of  course,  he  polished  and  modernized  lest 
they  should  offend  the  polite  taste  of  his  contempo- 
raries. We  differed  with  Johnson  in  our  estimate  of 
this  work,  for  he  ridiculed  it  as  a  useless  resurrection 
of  obsolete  rubbish,  while  we  thought  it  a  rude  but  in- 
teresting monument  of  poetic  antiquity.  There  were 
many  things  which  Johnson  could  not  comprehend — 
which  the  coarseness  of  his  mind  would  not  allow  him 
to  apprehend — and  one  of  these  things  was  poetry.  If 
the  tenor  of  his  writings  had  not  indicated  this  fact, 
if  it  was  not  apparent  in  his  edition  of  Shakespeare, 
it  would  have  been  forced  upon  us — it  would  have 
been  driven  into  us — by  his  Lives  of  the  Poets.  They 
could  not  have  been  written  in  any  period  that  had  not 
forfeited  every  claim  to  poetic  criticism  as  well  as 
poetic  creation.  No  poet  would  have  consented  to  be- 
gin a  collection  of  English  Poets  with  Cowley,  or 
would  have  admitted  into  a  collection  of  English  Poets 
such  dreary  versifiers  as  Roscommon,  and  Sheffield, 
and  Congreve,  and  Sprat,  and  Walsh,  and  no  critic 
could  have  stultified  himself  as  Johnson  did  when  he 
penned  his  animadversions  upon  the  sonnets  of  Milton. 
Criticism  and  poetry  were  fallen  on  evil  days  and  evil 
tongues  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Poetry  indeed — at  any  rate  poetry  of  a  high  order — • 
was  no  longer  written.  Nor  was  there  any  reason  why 
it  ever  should  be  again.     There  was  nothing  that  r,p- 


Viii  INTRODUCTION. 

pealed  to  it — nothing  heroic  that  demanded  it — no 
movement  in  the  life  of  the  time  that  did  not  find  the 
fullest  expression  in  prose — no  seed  of  light  in  the 
darkness,  no  prophecy  and  promise  of  Morning,  how- 
ever remote,  that  might  smite  the  silent  lips  of  INIcm- 
non  into  Song. 

But  the  darkest  hour  is  just  before  day.  It  is  so  in 
nature,  we  are  told,  and  it  is  sometimes  so  in  art  and 
letters.  It  was  certainly  so  in  poetry,  for  while  John- 
son was  writing  the  last  of  his  Lives  of  the  Poets  a  new 
poet  was  writing  the  first  of  his  grave  and  thoughtful 
strains.  The  son  of  a  chaplain  of  George  the  Second, 
a  Westminster  scholar,  and  a  solicitor  of  the  Middle 
Temple,  he  had  been  crossed  in  love,  had  attempted 
his  own  life,  and  had  been  placed  in  the  mad-house  of 
a  brother  poet.  Released  from  durance  before  he  was 
quite  sane  (if  he  ever  was  quite  sane),  he  retired  to 
lodgings  in  the  country,  and  became  the  inmate  of  a 
clergyman's  family,  first  at  Huntingdon,  and  afterward 
at  Olney,  where  he  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  the 
spiritual  hands  of  a  curate  who  had  once  been  master 
of  a  slave-vessel,  and  who  pressed  him  into  religion 
and  the  writing  of  lugubrious  hymns.  Another  attack 
of  lunacy  led  to  another  attempt  upon  his  life.  He 
recovered,  however,  and,  watched  over  by  the  clergy- 
man's widow,  was  induced  to  divert  his  mind  with 
gardening  and  the  gambols  of  tame  hares.  To  these 
rational  amusements  he  was  at  last  persuaded  to  add 
the  composition  of  verse,  and  having  up  to  this  time 
learned  nothing  that  was  of  value  to  himself,  he  natur- 
allv  proceeded  to  instruct  mankind.  Such  was  William 
Cowper,  when,  at  the  age  of  forty-eight,  he  began  to 


INTRODUCTION.  IX 

sing  of  Truth  and  the  Progress  of  Error,  of  Hope  and 
Charity,  of  Conversation  and  Retirement.  His  themes 
and  his  method  of  handhng  them  were  not  poetical, 
but  they  were  not  averse  from  the  good  sense  with 
which  he  illustrated  them,  and  which  made  readers  for 
him  among  the  serious  classes  of  his  countrymen.  His 
didacticism  was  accepted  for  all  it  was  worth.  The 
writing  of  these  poems  confirmed  Cowper  in  the 
literary  habit,  and  revealed  to  him  the  natural  direc- 
tion of  his  talents.  He  cast  them  in  the  heroic  couplet, 
which  still  maintained  its  ascendency  in  English 
Verse,  though  its  most  polished  master  had  been  dead 
nearly  forty  years,  but  with  a  force  and  freedom  that 
would  have  startled  the  delicate  sensibilities  of  Pope. 
He  wrote  all  like  a  man,  as  Ben  Jonson  said  of  his 
poetic  son  Cartwright,  but  not  like  the  man  he  was  to 
prove  himself  in  his  next  work.  The  Task,  which  was 
published  in  the  year  after  the  death  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
placed  him  at  once  at  the  head  of  living  English  poets. 
A  greater  than  he  was  singing,  but  his  first  volume 
was  not  published  imtil  a  year  later  than  The  Task, 
when  it  stole  into  English  Verse  at  Kilmarnock.  The 
long  and  dreary  reign  of  Pope  and  his  followers,  the 
reign  of  prose  in  the  singing  robes  of  poetry,  was 
over  when  Cowper  and  Burns  began  to  celebrate  w^hat 
they  felt  and  what  they  saw — one  pursuing  a  suggestion 
of  Lady  Austin,  which  led  him  from  a  sofa  into  the 
sober  world  of  English  thought  and  the  charming 
world  of  English  rural  scenery,  the  other  pursuing  the 
inspiration  of  his  own  genius,  which,  while  he  followed 
the  plough  along  the  mountain  side,  led  him  into  the 
canny  world  of  Scottish  wisdom  and  the  stormy  world 


X  INTRODUCTION. 

of  Scottish  passion  and  indulgence.  Long  hidden  from 
the  priests  who  had  thronged  her  sanctuary  and  offered 
her  their  empty  lip  service,  the  Muse  revealed  herself 
to  Cowper  and  Burns,  and  the  face  which  smiled  upon 
tliem  as  she  lifted  her  veil  was  the  face  of  the  Sovereign 
Mother.  Lesser  poetic  voices  in  the  last  two  decades 
of  the  eighteenth  century  were  Erasmus  Darwin,  who 
mistook  a  Botanic  Garden  for  Tempe  and  the  vales  of 
Arcady  :  Charlotte  Smith  and  William  Lisle  Bowles, 
who  prolonged  their  personal  disappointments  in  in- 
different sonnets:  William  Hayley,  who  placated  the 
Triumphs  of  Temper:  Samuel  Rogers,  who,  walking  in 
tlie  steps  of  Akenside,  sang  The  Pleasures  of  Memory  ; 
Thomas  Campbell,  who,  walking  in  the  steps  of  Ro- 
gers, sang  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  ;  and  Robert  Bloom- 
field,  who,  trying  to  walk  in  the  steps  of  Cowper  and 
Thomson,  sang  The  Farmer's  Boy. 

Looking  back  along  the  literature  of  the  eighteenth 
century  we  see  that  English  Verse  was  largely  culti- 
vated therein,  but  we  do  not  see  that  the  harvest  was 
ever  abundant.  Looking  upon  it  as  we  look  upon  the 
nineteenth  century,  or  so  much  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury as  lies  behind  us,  and  comparing  the  one  with  the 
other — the  sterility  of  the  reigns  of  Queen  Anne  and  the 
first  two  Georges  with  the  fertility  of  the  reigns  of  the 
fourth  George  and  Victoria — we  are  disposed  to  pity 
our  ancestors  and  to  congratulate  ourselves.  From 
Avhatever  point  of  view  we  compare  ourselves  with 
tiiem  we  are  struck  with  our  own  superiority.  Waiv- 
ing our  knowledge  of  the  natural  sciences,  the  most 
advanced  branches  of  which  were  the  merest  empiri- 
cism in  their  day,  and  our  proficiency  in  philology,  the 


INTRODUCTION.  XI 

nature  and  extent  of  which  were  scarcely  suspected 
then  ;  and  waiving,  also,  the  perfection  of  our  civiliza- 
tion, of  which  raihvavs  and  steamships,  the  electric 
telegraph  and  the  telephone,  are  the  material  manifesta- 
tions ;  waiving,  in  short,  everything  except  literature, 
which  depends  less  than  any  other  intellectual  pursuit 
upon  the  social  condition  of  the  people  among  whom 
it  is  cultivated — what  relation,  we  ask,  does  the  litera- 
ture of  the  eighteenth  century  bear  to  the  literature  of 
the  nineteenth  century  ?  Let  us  take  one  department 
thereof  in  which  both  centuries  have  produced  ac- 
knowledged masters  ;  a  department  which  is  least  liable 
to  change  in  that  it  concerns  itself  with  what  is  least 
changeable  in  man — his  passions — what  did  the  eigh- 
teenth century  offer  its  readers  in  the  shape  of  prose 
fiction  ?  Tracing  back  the  succession  of  English  novel- 
ists we  pass  the  names  of  Sophia  and  Harriet  Lee, 
Matthew  Gregory  Lewis,  Charlotte  Smith,  Ann  Rad- 
cliff,  Frances  Burney,  and  Henry  Mackenzie.  When 
we  come  to  the  name  of  Goldsmith  we  stop,  and  yawn- 
ing over  our  early  recollections  of  The  Man  of  Feeling, 
Evelina,  and  The  Mysteries  of  Udolpho,  we  take  up 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  for  the  twentieth  time,  and  find 
it  as  delightful  as  at  the  first  reading.  If  we  have 
a  strong  sense  of  humor,  and  are  willing  to  follow  it 
whithersoever  it  may  lead,  we  can  still  be  amused  by 
Humphrey  Clinker  and  Roderick  Random,  although 
they  become  rather  tedious  before  we  finish  them.  We 
enjoy  portions  of  Tristram  Shandy,  but  it  is  with  a  sort 
of  protest,  for  we  feel  that  we  are  being  fooled  with, 
and  we  resent  the  foolery.  We  try  to  read  Richardson, 
but  the  more  we  try  the  less  we  read ;  for  granting  that 


XU  INTRODUCTION. 

all  the  fine  things  which  have  been  said  of  him  are  true, 
they  count  for  nothing  with  us,  he  is  such  a  tiresome 
old  prig.  We  forgive  him,  however,  as  we  forgive 
Southey  for  writing  his  Vision  of  Judgment,  for  with- 
out that  we  should  not  have  had  Byron's  Vision  of 
Judgment,  as  without  Pamela  we  should  not  have  had 
Joseph  Andrews.  Fielding  is  the  only  eighteenth  cen- 
tury novelist  whom  it  is  possible  to  read  with  pleasure 
and  profit  now — with  the  pleasure  that  we  always  receive 
from  masterly  delineations  of  character,  and  the  profit 
that  we  always  receive  from  contemporary  delineations 
of  manners.  We  feel  that  we  can  trust  him  as  we  trust 
Shakespeare,  for  though  we  may  never  have  met  them 
or  their  kind  before,  the  moment  his  personages  appear 
they  authenticate  themselves.  Byron  summed  up  the 
Avorld's  verdict  upon  Fielding  when  he  called  him  the 
Prose  Homer  of  human  nature.  Thirty  years  before 
Fielding  wrote  Tom  Jones,  a  much-writing  English- 
man, a  Dissenter,  who  had  been  a  hosier  in  Cornhill,  a 
traitor  with  Monmouth,  a  trader  in  Spain  and  Portugal, 
a  financial  projector,  and  a  political  pamphleteer,  and 
who  had  stood  in  the  Pillory,  as  Pope  took  care  to  in- 
form his  polite  readers  —  this  restless,  adventurous 
spirit,  weary  at  last  of  persecutions  and  arrests,  sat 
down  in  retirement,  at  the  age  of  fifty-eight,  with  a 
wife  and  six  children,  and  penned  The  Life  and  Sur- 
prising Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  of  York, 
Mariner.  Like  nothing  that  had  ever  been  written 
before,  it  was  read  with  avidity  by  the  common  English 
people,  who  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that  they  were 
reading  fiction.  It  was  so  simple  and  natural  indeed, 
so  circumstantial  in  its  enumeration  of  details,  and  so 


INTRODUCTION.  Xlil 

thorough  in  its  narration  of  incidents  that  it  could  not 
have  been  invented.  Tliere  was  the  same  air  of  veri- 
similitude in  The  Life  and  Piracies  of  Captain  Single- 
ton, Moll  Flanders,  and  the  Life  and  Adventures  of 
Colonel  Jack,  which  followed  at  intervals  of  a  year 
each,  and  in  The  Memoirs  of  a  Cavalier,  Roxana,  and 
The  Life  of  Captain  Carleton.  The  literary  art  of  De 
Foe  was  so  perfect  that  it  deceived  Dr.  Johnson,  who 
believed  the  last  of  these  fictions  to  be  a  genuine  con- 
tribution to  history.  Such,  in  brief,  Avas  English  fic- 
tion in  the  eighteenth  century,  and,  think  as  kindly  of 
it  as  we  may,  we  must  confess  that  it  was  not  worthy 
of  the  genius  of  the  English  people.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  condition  of  that  people  during  the  greater 
portion  of  that  century,  which  was  not  favorable  to  the 
exercise  and  development  of  their  nobler  qualities, 
which  obstructed  the  operations  of  the  mind,  checked 
the  excursions  of  the  imagination,  and  suspended  if  it 
did  not  destroy  the  creative  energy.  They  proved  their 
patriotism  by  winning  victories  for  Churchill  in  the 
Low  Countries,  and  for  Walpole  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. They  set  up  an  idol  they  called  Loyalty — an 
insular  Janus  of  Church  and  State,  Avhich  high  and  low 
alike  worshipped.  The  Church  upheld  the  State,  and 
the  State  upheld  the  Church,  and  between  the  two  the 
subject  went  to  the  wall.  Authority  demanded  sub- 
mission, and  if  it  were  refused  enforced  it.  But  it  was 
not  often  refused,  for  the  Englishman  of  the  eighteenth 
century  knew  his  place.  He  was  Master,  or  he  was 
man.  If  he  was  statesman,  he  kept  himself  in  power 
by  obeying  the  commands  of  His  Majesty  :  if  he  was 
churchman,  he  kissed  benefices  out  of  the  hands  of  His 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

Majesty's  Mistresses  :  if  he  was  soldier — but  perhaps 
there  is  no  truth  in  the  stories  that  they  tell  about 
Marlborough.  It  was  not  a  high-minded  century,  but 
it  was  a  successful  one,  for  its  master-spirits,  wiser  in 
their  generation  than  the  children  of  light,  contrived 
to  prosper  in  their  double  worship  of  God  and  Mam- 
mon. 

That  the  literature  of  the  nineteenth  century  should 
have  grown  out  of  the  literature  of  the  eighteenth 
century  seems  at  the  first  sight  impossible,  so  different 
are  their  forms  and  the  spirit  by  which  they  are 
animated.  But  when  we  study  them  attentively  we 
discover  their  relation  to  each  other,  and  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  preceding  centuries,  for  whether  Ave  see  it 
or  not,  the  whole  Literature  of  England  is  distinguished 
by  the  same  intellectual  characteristics, — the  qualities 
and  energies  which  constitute  the  English  Mind,  and 
which  run  through  it  like  the  family  likeness  in  a  gal- 
lery of  ancestral  portraits.  The  chief  defect  which 
nineteenth  century  criticism  finds  in  eighteenth  cen- 
tury Verse  is  that  it  is  prose  in  a  metrical  form. 
The  quality  which  we  feel  in  Chaucer,  and  Spenser, 
and  Shakespeare,  and  Milton,  among  the  older 
poets,  and  in  Burns,  and  Byron,  and  Shelley,  and 
Keats,  among  the  poets  of  our  own  time,  is  not  in  it. 
Precisely  what  this  quality  is  criticism  has  not  deter- 
mined, its  manifestations  are  so  multiform,  and  so 
colored  by  the  personality  of  its  possessors.  It  was  a 
certain  simplicity  and  freshness  in  Chaucer,  who  had  a 
childlike  delight  in  telling  stories  ;  a  sense  of  spiritual 
purity  and  loveliness  in  Spenser,  who  was  at  once  the 
most  melodious  and  most  picturesque  of   poets  ;   an 


INTRODUCTION.  XV 

intuitive  comprehension  of  mankind  in  Shakespeare, 
from  whom  nature  had  no  secrets  ;  a  reverence  for 
austerity  of  conduct  and  sublimity  of  aspiration  in 
Milton  ;  a  hunger  and  thirst  of  passion  in  Burns  and 
Byron  ;  a  blind  devotion  to  impossible  ideals  in  Shel- 
ley, and  in  Keats  the  perpetual  worship  of  the  Beauti- 
ful. The  faculty  of  selecting  poetical  actions, — actions, 
that  is,  which  are  poetical  because  they  are  heroic,  or 
pathetic,  and  the  rarer  faculty  of  creating  them  when 
they  are  lacking  in  human  annals, — neither  was  vouch- 
safed to  the  eighteenth  century  poets.  They  were  not 
large  enough,  nor  simple  enough,  to  care  for  man  as  he 
came  from  the  hand  of  nature, — the  creature  of  impulse, 
or  circumstance,  a  law  unto  himself :  what  interested 
them,  so  far  as  they  could  be  interested,  were  men  in 
their  sophisticated  condition,  the  entangling  congeries 
of  artificiality  which  they  called  the  Town.  Now  and 
then  they  were  on  the  eve  of  writing  poetry,  and  in 
almost  any  other  period  than  the  prosaic  one  in  which 
it  was  their  misfortune  to  live,  they  would  have  written 
poetry,  for  among  their  number  there  were  several 
men  of  genius.  The  penniless  young  Scotchman  who 
went  up  to  London  in  his  twenty-fifth  year,  and  had 
faith  enough  in  himself,  and  in  what  he  had  observed 
of  nature  in  his  native  land,  to  write  a  poem  about  it, 
in  his  own  way,  was  a  man  of  genius.  And  he  was 
recognized  as  such  by  his  contemporaries,  against 
whose  favorite  poets  and  their  methods  of  poetizing 
his  simple,  honest  work  was  a  protest,  in  that  it  dealt 
with  nature,  and  not  with  society,  with  the  pomps 
and  shows  of  the  Seasons,  and  not  with  powdered 
beaux  and  patched  and  painted  belles.     Nor  was  he 


Xvi  INTRODUCTION. 

alone,  for  another  Scotchman  who  was  fifteen  years 
his  elder,  who  had  worked  in  a  lead  mine  in  his  child- 
hood, and  in  his  manhood  at  a  barber's  chair  in  Edin- 
burgh,— instructed  by  the  Muse,  had  gathered  from 
the  neglected  gardens  of  Henryson,  Dunbar,  Lyndsay, 
and  other  of  his  country's  early  poets,  a  handful  of 
wilding  flowers,  which  were  still  in  sturdy  bloom,  and 
which  he  fitly  named  The  Evergreen.  Following  the 
departure  which  he  had  thus  taken  from  the  high- 
way of  popular  poetry,  he  explored  the  lanes  and  by- 
ways of  old  balladry  and  song,  and  plucking  in  his 
haste  the  flowers  and  weeds  that  were  alike  abundant 
there,  he  modishly  called  his  armfuls  of  both  a  Tea 
Table  Miscellany.  A  year  later  he  won  the  laurel 
which  so  many  English  poets  had  long  and  assiduously 
sought, — which  Spenser  hoped  to  obtain  by  his  Shep- 
herd's Calendar,  and  Browne  by  his  Britannia's  Pastor- 
als,— which  Pope  snatched  at,  but  missed,  when  he 
wrote  his  Pastorals,  and  which  Gay  also  missed,  al- 
though he  did  not  snatch  at  it, — good,  easy  man  ! — the 
laurel  of  pastoral  poetry,  which  he  was  the  first  British 
poet  to  be  crowned  with,  and  worthily  crowned,  not  only 
by  the  Muse  who  inspired  him  to  sing,  but  by  the  plain, 
simple  country  folk  whom  he  sang,  and  who  certainly 
knew  whether  he  sang  them  truly  or  not.  If  ever  poet 
reached  the  people,  it  was  Allan  Ramsay  in  The  Gentle 
Sliepherd.  Whether  Ramsay  and  Thomson  were  aware 
of  the  radical  difference  between  their  poetry  and  the 
poetry  of  the  period,  and  were  also  aware  of  its  signi- 
ficance as  an  intellectual  movement,  may  fairly  be 
questioned.  That  they  had  a  circle  of  readers,  and 
perhaps  a  large  one,   proves  that  they  succeeded  in 


INTRODUCTION.  XVll 

awakening  poetical  curiosity,  but  nothing  more.  If 
their  verse  violated  the  existing  canons  of  taste,  it  was 
from  no  deep-seated  design  on  their  part  to  overthrow 
those  canons,  but  simply  because  their  natural  bent  in 
writing  happened  to  lie  outside  of  them.  If  it  had 
happened  to  lie  within  them,  they  would  have  followed 
it^ — at  any  rate  the  lettered  Thomson  would  have  fol- 
lowed it, — as  closely  as  Pope  followed  the  artificial 
manner  that  he  inherited  from  Dryden.  Still  they 
were  not  without  influence  upon  English  Verse,  for 
tracing  its  main  stream  as  it  meanders  along  lazily 
through  the  eighteenth  century  we  detect  from  time  to 
time  the  pulsation  of  fresh  currents  therein.  We  are 
conscious  of  them  in  Somerville's  Chace  (1735),  Shen- 
stone's  Schoolmistress  (1742),  Thomson's  Castle  of  Indo- 
lence (1748),  and  Gray's  Elegy  (1751)-  Whether  the 
contemporary  readers  of  these  poems  compared  them 
with  other  poems  of  the  time,  and  accepted  them,  or 
rejected  them,  as  they  happened  to  like  or  dislike 
them,  we  have  no  positive  means  of  knowing,  for  with 
the  exception  of  the  Elegy,  which  at  once  established 
itself  in  popular  favor,  they  excited  no  critical  com- 
ment. We  find  them  in  a  poetic  literature  to  which 
they  are  dissimilar,  and  we  conclude  that  a  change 
has  come  over  this  literature  which  accounts  for  their 
dissimilarity,  and  that  they  represent  this  change, 
whether  they  originated  it  or  not.  One  need  but 
glance  at  the  history  of  English  Verse  to  see  that  it 
was  not  the  same  in  the  seventeenth  century  as  in  the 
eighteenth,  and  that  it  was  not  quite  the  same  in  the 
second  quarter  of  the  latter  as  in  the  first.  The  deca- 
dence of  the  spirit  of  false  classicism  began  with  Thorn- 


XVlll  INTRODUCTION. 

son's  Winter,  and  closed  with  Cowper's  Task.  What 
the  English  poets  learned  in  the  intervening  half  cen- 
tury was  to  discard  the  practice  of  Pope  and  Boileau, 
who  compounded  poetry  as  apothecaries  compounded 
medicines,  after  authoritative  recipes,  and  trust  to 
nature.  They  learned  to  shut  their  books,  and  look 
into  themselves. 

There  was  one  book,  however,  of  which  they  did  not 
think  much,  but  which  was  read  with  pleasure  and 
profit  by  their  children,  and  that  was  Percy's  Reliques. 
Scott  always  remembered  the  spot  where  he  read  the 
volumes  for  the  first  time.  It  was  beneath  a  huge 
plantanus-trce,  in  the  ruins  of  what  had  been  intended 
for  an  old-fashioned  arbor  in  the  garden  of  his  Aunt 
Janet  at  Kelso.  "The  summer  day  sped  onward  so 
fast  that,  notwithstanding  the  sharp  appetite  of  thir- 
teen, I  forgot  the  hour  of  dinner,  was  sought  for  with 
anxiety,  and  was  still  found  entranced  in  my  intellectual 
banquet.  To  read  and  to  remember  was  in  this  in- 
stance the  same  thing,  and  henceforth  I  overwhelmed 
my  school-fellows,  and  all  who  would  hearken  to  me, 
with  tragical  recitations  from  the  ballads  of  Bishop 
Percy.  The  first  time,  too,  I  could  scrape  a  few  shil- 
lings together,  which  were  not  common  occurrences 
with  me,  I  bought  unto  myself  a  copy  of  these  beloved 
volumes  ;  nor  do  I  believe  I  ever  read  a  book  half  so 
frequently,  or  with  half  the  enthusiasm."  Another 
English  poet,  whose  family  was  settled  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  the  Third  at  Peniston,  near  Doncaster,  the 
scene  of  the  combat  described  in  The  Dragon  of  Want- 
ley,  and  one  of  whose  ancestors  was  stated  in  the  Notes 
to  have   been   a   cousin    of   the  Dragon   (Sir  Francis 


INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

Wortley),  Wordsworth  maintained  that  the  Reliques 
were  next  in  importance  in  English  Verse  to  Thom- 
son's Seasons,  and  pointed  out  in  one  of  his  Prefaces 
that  while  Dr.  Johnson  and  the  little  senate  to  which 
he  gave  laws  succeeded  in  making  them  an  object  of 
contempt,  Burger  and  other  able  writers  of  Germany 
were  translating,  or  imitating  them,  and  composing, 
with  the  aid  of  the  inspiration  thence  derived,  ballads 
which  were  the  delight  of  the  German  nation.  They 
were  read  with  avidity  by  Burger  in  his  young  man- 
hood, as  well  as  by  the  Gottingen  circle  of  poets  with 
whom  he  was  affiliated,  and  their  influence  was  mani- 
fest in  his  ballads,  notably  in  Ellenore,  which  was 
published  only  nine  years  later  than  the  Reliques,  and 
at  once  became  popular.  If  the  old  ballads  in  Percy 
inspired  Burger  to  write  this  ballad,  a  translation  of 
this  ballad,  which  was  read  in  manuscript  by  Mrs. 
Barbauld  at  a  party  in  Edinburgh,  and  of  which  Scott 
learned  through  the  imperfect  recollection  of  a  friend 
who  had  heard  it,  inspired  him  to  obtain  the  original, 
and  to  spend  a  night  in  translating  it  himself,  and  by 
awakening  his  early  love  of  poetry,  and  with  it  the 
aiTibition  to  excel  therein,  made  him  a  poet.  He 
crossed  the  invisible  threshold  between  the  world  of 
Prose  and  the  world  of  Verse  in  his  twenty-sixth  year 
(1796),  bearing  in  his  hands  a  thin  quarto  containing 
his  translation  of  two  of  Blirger's  ballads,  Ellenore, 
which  he  Englished  into  Lenore,  and  The  Wild  Hunts- 
man. That  there  was  poetic  vitality  in  the  prosaic 
eighteenth  century  was  proved  by  the  Reliques,  which 
were  followed  in  England  by  twenty-eight  similar  col- 
lections before  the  century  closed,  and  by  the  profound 


XX  INTRODUCTION. 

impression  they  made  in  Germany,  where  they  helped 
to  create  a  school  of  balladists.  What  they  were  to 
Scott  in  his  boyhood  he  has  told  tis.  What  they  were 
to  him  in  his  early  manhood,  when  they  were  recalled 
to  his  memory  by  the  ballads  of  Biirger,  his  transla- 
tions from  Biirger  show  us.  What  they  were  to  him 
at  a  later  period  we  see  by  turning  to  his  poetical 
writings,  and  noting  the  order  in  which  they  were 
written.  After  the  Biirger  ballads  he  wrote,  within 
the  next  three  years,  the  ballads  of  Glenfinlas,  The  Eve 
of  St.  John,  The  Grey  Brothers,  and  translated  The 
Fire  King.  Then  came  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish 
Border,  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  Marmion, 
The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  Rokeby,  The  Lord  of  the 
Isles,  and,  latest  of  all,  Harold  the  Dauntless.  The 
literary  inspiration  of  these  writings  was  the  old  bal- 
lads collected  by  Bishop  Percy  and  his  svicccssors,  and 
the  old  metrical  romances  of  which  some  of  these  bal- 
lads were  undoubtedly  reminiscences,  while  others  may 
have  been  the  original  germs.  We  have  in  Scott  the 
last  of  the  race  of  English  and  Scottish  balladists,  the 
last  of  the  kings  of  song  and  story, — lords  paramount 
of  the  enchanted  world  of  Romance.  He  is  the  Lau- 
reate of  Chivalry. 

Another  English  poet,  of  whom  we  have  already 
spoken,  and  whom  we  usually  associate  with  the  im- 
mortals of  the  nineteenth  century,  appeared,  like 
Scott,  in  the  last  decade  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
but,  imlike  Scott,  in  the  livery  which  the  lackeys  of 
Pope  had  worn  threadbare.  Wordsworth's  first  poet- 
ical ventures,  which  were  published  three  years  before 
Scott's   translations  from    Biirger,  were  An    Evening 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

Walk — an  attempt  to  paint  a  series  of  landscape  views 
in  his  own  country,  and  Descriptive  Sketches,  an  at- 
tempt to  paint  the  scenery  of  the  Alps,  among  which 
he  had  lately  made  a  pedestrian  tour  with  a  college 
friend.  The  most  that  can  be  said  of  these  produc- 
tions is  that  they  are  fairly  well  written,  and  that  there 
are  touches  of  natural  description  in  them  which  could 
only  have  been  the  result  of  actual  observation.  A 
copy  of  the  Descriptive  Sketches  fell  into  the  hands  of 
a  young  man  in  Cambridge,  who  was  charmed  with 
them,  and  who  declared  years  afterward  that  seldom,  if 
ever,  was  the  emergence  of  an  original  poetic  genius 
above  the  literary  horizon  more  evidently  announced 
than  in  these  same  Sketches.  This  young  man  was  a 
poet  himself,  and  about  this  time  was  writing  Songs  to 
the  Pixies,  verses  on  Roses,  and  Kisses,  an  Address  to 
a  Young  Ass,  and  other  little  pieces.  Being  in  love, 
or  debt,  or  both,  he  suddenly  left  college,  and  went  up 
to  London,  where  he  was  soon  reduced  to  want.  To 
alleviate  this  prosaic  misfortune,  he  enlisted  as  a  pri- 
vate in  the  15  th  Light  Dragoons,  which  were  then 
stationed  at  Reading,  and  during  his  four  months*  con- 
tinuance in  the  awkward  squad  it  is  hard  to  say  which 
was  the  most  to  be  pitied, — he,  or  his  horse.  A  chance 
recognition  in  the  street  made  his  whereabouts  known 
to  his  family,  who  procured  his  release.  Two  or  three 
months  later  he  went  to  Oxford,  where  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  another  poet,  whom  he  met  again 
at  Bristol,  and  by  whom  he  was  introduced  to  a 
third  poet,  who  had  recently  taken  to  himself  a  wife, 
which  wife  had  two  pretty  unmarried  sisters,  of  one  of 
whom  he  became  at  once  enamored,  his  friend  being 


XXli  INTRODUCTION. 

enamored  of  the  other.  This  trio  of  poets  was  Robert 
Southey,  Robert  Lovell,  and  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 
Southey  made  love  to  his  Edith,  and  Coleridge  to  his 
Sarah,  and  in  the  intervals  of  that  delightful  employ- 
ment both  made  love  to  the  Muse,  joining  their  forces, 
such  as  they  were  then,  in  the  composition  of  a  con- 
temporary drama.  The  Fall  of  Robespierre,  which  got 
into  print  in  1794.  In  the  same  year  Southey  published 
a  volume  of  Poems,  in  conjunction  with  his  friend 
Lovell,  and  in  the  following  year  the  first  of  his  epics, 
Joan  of  Arc,  which  he  believed  to  be  the  most  impor- 
tant addition  to  English  Verse  since  Glover's  Leonidas, 
which  was  given  to  the  world  about  sixty  years  before. 
Stimulated  by  an  offer  of  thirty  guineas  from  Cottle, 
another  poet,  Coleridge  collected  his  Address  to  a 
Young  Ass,  his  verses  on  Roses,  and  Kisses,  and  other 
juvenilia,  and  published  them  as  Poems  in  1796.  A 
second  edition,  which  was  reached  in  the  next  year, 
contained  additions  by  two  of  his  tuneful  friends, 
Charles  Lamb  and  Charles  Lloyd.  Four  years  had 
elapsed  since  Wordsworth  published  his  Descriptive 
Sketches,  and  he  had  not  been  idle  during  that  time, 
though  he  had  printed  nothing.  He  had  written 
several  poems,  among  them  Guilt  and  Sorrow,  and  a 
tragedy  called  The  Borderers.  In  the  summer  of  1797 
he  was  visited  at  Racedown  by  Coleridge,  who  repeated 
to  him  and  his  sister  Dorothy,  after  tea,  two  acts  and 
a  half  of  a  tragedy  he  had  in  hand,  and  to  whom  the 
next  morning  he  read  the  whole  five  acts  of  his  own 
tragedy,  A  visit  with  his  sister  to  Coleridge,  at  Nether- 
Stowcy,  in  tlie  autumn,  led  to  a  little  tour  in  the 
ueigliboiliuud,  and    as    their  united    funds  were  very 


INTRODUCTION.  XXlll 

small,  the  two  poets  agreed  to  defray  the  expense  of 
the  tour  by  writing  a  poem.  They  set  off  along  the 
Quantock  Hills,  and  in  the  course  of  their  walk  the 
poem  was  planned,  Coleridge  supplying  the  story 
which  was  to  be  narrated,  and  Wordsworth  suggest- 
ing the  crime  upon  which  it  should  hinge,  and  which 
was  to  be  punished  in  the  spiritual  suffering  of  the 
hero.  They  began  it  the  same  evening,  but  did  not 
proceed  far  before  they  discovered  that  their  respec- 
tive manners  could  not  be  successfully  combined,  and 
Wordsworth  withdrew  from  the  undertaking.  They 
continued  their  tour,  the  poem  growing  in  the  mean- 
time until  it  became  too  important  for  their  first  ob- 
ject, which  was  limited  to  their  expectation  of  five 
pounds,  so  they  began  to  think  of  writing  a  volume, 
which  was  to  consist  of  poems  chiefly  on  supernatural 
subjects,  taken  from  common  life,  and  looked  at,  as 
much  as  might  be,  through  an  imaginative  medium. 
The  poem  thus  conceived  was  The  Ancient  Mariner, 
and  the  volume  thus  projected  was  the  Lyrical 
Ballads.  Looking  back  upon  the  eighteenth  century 
now  we  can  distinguish  therein  four  great  years,  four 
years  that  are  memorable  in  the  history  of  English 
Verse,  years  in  which  old  elements  were  discarded  and 
new  elements  introduced,  in  which  the  old  order 
yielded,  giving  place  to  new — the  years  in  which 
Thomson  published  his  Winter  {1726),  Gray  the  Elegy 
(1751),  Cowper  The  Task  (1785),  and  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge  the  Lyrical  Ballads  (1798).  The  year  that 
witnessed  the  publication,  in  the  same  volume,  of  The 
Ancient  Mariner,  and  Lines  written  a  few  miles  above 
Tintcrn  Abbey,  was  the  annus  mirabilis. 


XXIV  INTRODUCTION. 

The  prospects  of  English  Verse  were  prosperous 
when  the  nineteenth  century  opened.  Dispirited  and 
benumbed  during  the  greater  part  of  the  cigliteentla 
century,  it  had  shaken  off  the  fetters  which  had  been 
imposed  upon  it,  and  rousing  as  its  energies  were 
awakened  had  revolted  and  declared  its  freedom.  It 
was  attended  by  four  torch-bearers,  Southey,  who  was 
in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  Coleridge,  who  was  in  his 
twenty-eighth  year,  Scott,  who  was  in  his  twenty-ninth 
year,  and  Wordsworth,  who  was  in  his  thirtieth  year. 
To  these  should  be  added  three  link-boys,  who  were 
younger,  Campbell  being  twenty-seven,  Landor  twen- 
ty-five, and  Moore  twenty-one.  Behind  these,  uncon- 
scious of  their  future  renown,  the  imagination  sees 
three  bright,  eager-eyed  lads,  George  Gordon  Byron, 
who  was  twelve,  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley,  the  son  of  a 
country  baronet,  who  was  eight,  and  John  Keats,  the 
son  of  the  head  servant  of  a  livery-stable  keeper,  who 
was  five.  Tracing  the  current  of  English  Verse  hither- 
ward  from  the  beginning  of  tlie  century,  we  find  the 
four  torch-bearers  following  the  paths  upon  which 
they  had  already  entered, — Soutliey,  the  path  of  the 
epic  in  Thalaba  (1801),  Madoc(i8o5),  Curse  of  Kehema 
(1810),  Roderick,  the  Last  of  the  Goths  (1814) ;  Scott, 
the  path  of  balladry,  which  soon  broadened  into  the 
shining  high-way  of  the  metrical  romance,  in  Tlic 
Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border  (1802-3),  The  Lay  of 
the  Last  Minstrel  (1805),  Marmion  (1808),  The  Lady 
of  the  Lake  (t8io),  Vision  of  Don  Roderick  (181 1), 
Rokeby  (1812),  The  Bridal  of  Triermain  (1813),  The 
Lord  of  the  Isles  (1815),  Harold  the  Dauntless  (1817)  ; 
Wordsworth,  the   |)ath  of   philosophic  meditation  and 


INTRODUCTION.  XXV 

nature-worship  in  Tiie  Excursion  (i8 14),  The  White  Doc 
of  Rylstone  (1815),  Peter  Bell  (1819),  The  Waggoner 
(18 1 9)  ;  and  Coleridge,  the  path  of  dramatic  fantasy,  in 
Christabel  (1806),  Remorse  (1813),  Sibylline  Leaves 
(18 1 6),  and  Zapolya  (18 16).  Of  the  four,  the  one  who 
made  poetry  the  business  of  his  life  was  the  least  pop- 
ular. Subversive  of  the  conventional  standard  of  taste, 
there  were  puerilities  in  his  poetry  which  provoked 
derision,  and  an  originality  which  was  offensive.  Sucli 
readers  as  he  had,  and  they  were  not  many,  he  made, 
and  made  slowly.  What  Coleridge  might  have  become 
if,  like  Wordsworth,  he  could  have  devoted  himself 
wholly  to  poetry,  we  can  only  conjecture  ;  that  he  had 
a  richer  nature  and  a  more  creative  imagination  can 
scarcely  be  doubted.  As  it  was,  however,  he  frittered 
away  his  time  in  dreaming  and  travelling,  in  preaching 
and  lecturing,  in  writing  for  newspapers  and  project- 
ing periodicals,  but  chiefly  in  opium-eating.  He  had 
married  his  Sarah,  who  had  borne  him  children,  as  liis 
friend  Southey  had  married  his  Edith,  who  had  borne 
him  children,  and  it  was  Southey's  roof  that  sheltered 
the  young  Coleridges  and  their  mother.  With  fewer 
poetic  gifts  than  Coleridge,  Southey  contrived  to  thrive 
better,  for  while  he  composed  his  epics,  which  had  no 
sale  to  speak  of,  he  devised  letters  of  travel,  edited  poets, 
translated  romances  of  chivalry,  wrote  a  Life  of  Nelson, 
a  History  of  Brazil,  a  Book  of  the  Church,  and  num- 
berless articles  in  the  Quarterly  Review.  Reputation, 
which  had  been  refused  to  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth, 
though  a  share  of  it  had  fallen  to  the  lot  of  Southey, 
and  the  reward  which  follows  reputation,  often  in  the 
guise  of  its  evil  genius,— these  things  had  been  lavished 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION. 

upon  Scott  as  upon  few  English  poets  before.  The 
greatest  poet  of  the  time  in  general  estimation,  he  was 
the  most  in  demand  among  the  Trade,  for  he  had  the 
rare  art  of  coining  money  for  them  as  well  as  for  him- 
self. Scott's  reign  as  the  monarch  of  English  Verse 
in  the  nineteenth  century  was  brilliant  but  brief,  for 
in  its  seventh  year  his  power  was  shaken  by  a  young 
lord  of  twenty-four,  whose  claim  to  the  sovereignty 
was  a  poem  called  Childe  Harold.  He  abdicated  grace- 
fully, carrying  the  sceptre  with  which  he  had  ruled  over 
the  world  of  metrical  romance  into  the  greater  world 
of  historical  prose  romance,  Avhich  he  discovered,  and 
in  Avhich  his  genius  still  reigns  supreme.  Nowhere 
in  the  history  of  letters  do  we  find  a  career  like  that 
of  Byron,  nowhere  so  powerful  a  personality  as  his. 
He  was  what  Marlowe  miglit  have  been  but  for  that 
fatal  tavern  brawl — the  possessor  of  all  poetic  gifts, 
except  that  instinctive  knowledge  of  mankind  which 
was  Shakespeare's,  and  that  reverence  for  moral  great- 
ness whicla  was  Milton's, — a  swift  and  glorious  Spirit, 
an  elemental  Force  in  English  Verse.  Belonging  to 
the  same  race  of  high  intelligences,  but  of  a  different 
order,  was  Shelley,  who  was  of  too  ethereal  a  mould 
for  the  material  England  of  the  Georges.  He  had  the 
heart  of  a  woman,  or  a  child, — the  heart  which  suffer- 
ing first  moves  to  pity,  then  to  anger,  and  then  stings 
to  the  unreason  which  clamors  against  the  Maker  of  a 
world  in  which  such  suffering  exists.  He  confounded 
religion  with  priestcraft,  and  kingcraft  with  the  human 
imperfection  of  the  laws  it  administered,  and  would 
have  abolislicd  both,  and  put  man  back  once  more  in  a 
state  of  nature,  which,  poct-likc,  he  peopled  with  ail 


INTRODUCTION.  xxvii 

the  civic  virtues.  A  chartered  libertine  in  his  beliefs, 
the  soul  of  goodness  shone  through  his  life  and  his 
work,  than  which  there  is  none  more  imaginative  in 
English  Verse,  More  purely  poetical  than  either  was 
Keats,  who,  without  learning,  revived  the  spirit  of  the 
Greek  pastoral  in  Endymion,  and  the  spirit  of  the 
Greek  tragedy  in  Hyperion,  and  summoned  back  as 
with  the  wand  of  an  enchanter  the  light  and  loveliness 
of  the  Middle  Ages  in  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes.  His 
masters  were  Chaucer,  Spenser,  and  the  Shakespeare 
of  the  Sonnets,  and  their  pupil  was  worthy  of  them. 
One's  first  thought,  when  he  remembers  that  he  died 
in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  is,  that  he  died  young  ;  but 
when  one  remembers  what  his  life  was,  with  what 
scorn  his  poetry  was  received,  and  how  he  was  tortured 
by  a  hopeless  passion,  one  cannot  but  change  his  mind, 
and  say,  with  old  Bosola  in  the  Duchess  of  Malfy, 


*'  I  think  not  so  ;  his  infelicity 
Seemed  to  have  years  too  many. 


Of  the  later  nineteenth  century  poets,  successors  of 
Keats,  Shelley,  and  Byron,  born  in  their  lifetime,  but 
not  singing  until  the  grave  had  closed  over  them, — 
the  perfect  poet  who  has  restored  to  us  the  gracious 
Arthur  from  his  long  slumber  in  the  island  valley 
of  Avilion  ;  the  subtle  dramatist  who  has  poured  his 
own  heart's  blood  into  Sebald  and  Ottima,  Colombe 
and  Valence,  and  a  score  of  other  live  men  and  women ; 
the  tender  and  pensive  singer,  who  has  created  an 
Earthly  Paradise  for  the  immortal  stories  that  he  loves 
so  well,  and  that  we  love,  too  ;  the  fiery,  impassioned 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION. 

improvisator,  dramatist  at  once  and  lyrist,  who  has 
phicked  out  the  heart  of  Mary  Stuart's  secret,  and 
snatched  the  light  and  sound  of  the  sea  ;  of  these,  and 
others,  all  that  a  contemporary  should  say, — and  he 
cannot  say  less, — was  said  by  Keats  in  the  first  line  of 
the  second  sonnet  that  he  addressed  to  Haydon : 

*'  Great  spirits  now  on  earth  are  sojourning." 

R.  H.  Stoddard. 

The  Century, 

New  York,  September  20,  1883. 


^\  The  Editors  and  Publishers  of  ENGLISH  Verse  cordially 
ackjiowledge  the  kindness  which  has  allowed  them  to  print  in  it 
many  poems,  which  could  be  so  included  only  by  authority  of 
the  owners  of  the  Americati  copyrights.  The  permission  has 
been  willingly  granted  in  every  case  ;  and  it  is  through  this 
kind  co-operation  that  it  has  been  possible  to  make  thoroughly 
comprehensive  a  Collection  which  mtcst  otherwise  have  been 
unduly  limited  in  the  field  of  American  poetry.  Besides  their 
indebtedness  to  the  living  American  authors  whose  names 
appear  in  these  volumes,  they  desire  to  express  their  thanks  to 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  their  consent  to  the 
use  of  many  poems  from  the  long  list  of  poets  of  whose  works 
they  are  the  publishers  ;  to  MESSRS.  D.  Appleton  &  Co.  for 
the  use  of  poems  by  Bryant ;  to  MESSRS.  Roberts  Brothers 
««</ James  R.  Osgood  &  Co.  ;  to  Messrs.  J.  B.  Lippincott 
&  Co. ;  and  to  Messrs  A.  C.  Armstrong  &  Son. 


CONTENTS, 


William  Wordsworth  :  page 

Invocation  to  the  Power  of  Sound i 

Ode  to  Duty 7 

Nature's  Darling 9 

The  Triad lo 

Natural  Piety 17 

Sonnets  (It  is  a  beauteous  evening) 17 

(  This  world  is  too  much  with  us) 17 

(^O'er  the  wide  earth) 18 

(  There  is  a  bondage) 18 

(Methought  I  saw) 19 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  : 

Genevieve 19 

Names 2a 

To  a  Young  Ass 23 

Love  and  Hope  and  Patience  in  Education 24 

Youth  and  Age 25 

Robert  Southey  : 

The  Holly  Tree 26 

The  Scholar , 28 

Robert  Tannahill: 

Love's  Fear 28 

Mine  ain  dear  Somebody 29 

Sir  Walter  Scott  : 

The  Clan-Gathering 30 

Jock  o'  Hazeldean 31 


XXxii  CONTENTS. 

Sir  Walter  Scott  :  page 

Light  Love 32 

Death-Chant 33 

Proud  Maisie 33 

James  Montgomery: 

The  Blackbird 34 

Winter  Lightning 35 

James  Hogg : 

To  the  Lark 3S 

Maggie  away 3^ 

Charles  Lamb  : 

Hester 37 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces 38 

The  Gipsy's  Malison 39 

Walter  Savage  Landor  : 

To  Hesperus 4° 

Rubies 4i 

The  Nereid 41 

The  Maid's  Lament 42 

Margaret  43 

To  Youth 43 

Erinna  to  Love 44 

Thomas  Campbell: 

The  Battle  of  the  Baltic 44 

The  Mariners  of  England 4^ 

Hallowed  Ground 48 

Thomas  Moore  : 

Then  fare  Thee  well ! 5^ 

Peace  be  around  Thee  ! 5^ 

Bring  the  bright  Garlands  I 52 

Battle  Song 53 

After  Defeat S4 

Horace  Smith  : 

Hymn  of  the  Flowers 55 


CONTENTS.  xxxiii 

Ebenbzer  Elliott:  page 

Flowers  for  the  Heart 57 

The  Bramble-Flower 58 

Elegy  on  William  Cobbett 59 

Hannah  Ratcliffe 60 

James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt  : 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 6r 

Song  of  Peace 63 

A  Nun 63 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket 63 

To  his  Wife 64 

To  his  Piano-forte 64 

Allan  Cunningham  : 

The  Sun  in  France 65 

George  Darley: 

Waking  Song 66 

Sylvia's  Song 66 

Dirge 67 

Thomas  Love  Peacock  : 

Castles  in  the  Air 68 

Days  of  Old 68 

Margaret  Love  Peacock 69 

Brvan  Waller  Procter  : 

The  Stormy  Petrel 69 

To  our  Neighbour's  Health 70 

Bacchanalian 72 

Song  {Let  us  sing  and  sigh  /) 73 

I  love  Him 73 

Igfnorance  is  Bliss 74 

She  was  not  Fair 74 

The  Poet  to  his  Wife 75 

Richard  Henry  Dana : 

The  Little  Beachbird 76 

George  Gordon  Byron  : 

The  Isles  of  Greece 77 

ToTbyrza 80 


xxxlv  CONTENTS. 

Gkorge  Gordon  Byron  :  page 

Song  of  Saul 82 

The  Patriot 82 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 83 

Byron's  Last  Verse 84 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  : 

To  a  Skylark 85 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air 88 

To  Night 89 

A  Bridal  Song 90 

Song  (False  Friend/) 91 

Political  Greatness 91 

A  Wail 9a 

John  Keats : 

Hymn  to  Pan 92 

Roundelay 94 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn 98 

To  Autumn 100 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket loi 

Charles  Wolfe  : 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 103 

Felicia  Dorothea  Hkmans  : 

Her  Grave 103 

William  Cullen  Bryant  : 

To  a  Water-Fowl 104 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian 105 

Hymn  of  the  City 106 

To  the  North  Star 107 

The  Third  of  November .108 

Thomas  Carlyi.b  : 

Adieu  ! 109 

John  Hamilton  Reynolds: 

Hour  after  Hour ^ no 

Song  ( Go  where  the  water) in 

Sherwood  Forest in 


CONTENTS.  XXXV 

Hartley  Coleridge  :  page 

Song  {She  is  not  fair') 112 

Whither  ?..... 112 

William  Motherwell  : 

Jeanie  Morrison , 113 

Thomas  Hood : 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs 116 

Ode  to  Autumn 119 

To  a  Cold  Beauty 121 

Love's  Constancy 122 

Ruth 122 

The  Time  of  Roses 123 

Charles  Wells  : 

Song  {Kiss  no  more  the  Vintages') 124 

Sir  Henry  Taylor: 

Song  (  The  morning  broke) 125 

William  Barnes  : 

Not  far  to  go 125 

My  Fore-Elders 126 

John  Henry  Newman  : 

The  Elements 127 

A  Voice  from  Afar 128 

Harriet  Martineau  : 

Beneath  the  Arch 129 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes  : 

Song  of  the  Stygian  Naiads 130 

How  many  Times  ? 131 

Sea  Song 131 

Richard  Hengist  Horne  : 

Genius 132 

The  Laurel-Seed 133 

Solitude  and  the  Lily I34 


XXXvi  CONTENTS. 

Richard  Hengist  Hornb  :  pack 

The  Plough 13S 

Dirge 13s 

Newton 136 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  : 

The  Problem 136 

To  the  Humble-Bee 138 

To  Eva 140 

The  Apology 141 

Gerald  Griffin  : 

In  thy  Memory 141 

Maiden  Eyes 142 

James  Clarkncb  Mangan : 

Soul  and  Country 143 

Samuel  Laman  Blanchard : 

Nell  Gwynne's  Looking-Glass 144 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker: 

Isha  Cherioth 146 

The  Wail  of  the  Cornish  Mother 147 

Sarah  Flower  Adams  : 

The  Olive  Boughs 148 

Sir  William  Rowan  Hamilton: 

A  Prayer 148 

Thomas  Wade  : 

The  Net-Braiders 149 

Nymphs 150 

John  Sterling  : 

Daedalus 151 

William  Gii.moub  Simms: 

The  Lost  Pleiad 153 


CONTENTS.  XXXVll 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis:  pagb 

Two  Women 155 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  : 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song 156 

The  Light  of  Stars 156 

The  Cumberland 157 

Excelsior 159 

The  Rainy  Day 160 

Children 161 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  : 

In  School-Days i6a 

Telling  the  Bees 163 

Ichabod 165 

The  River-Path 166 

Richard  Chenevix  Trench  : 

The  Lent  Jewels i63 

Edgar  Allan  Poe  : 

The  Bells 169 

To  Helen 172 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes: 

The  Chambered  Nautilus 173 

Alfred  Tennyson : 

Tithonus 174 

Mariana 176 

The  Poet's  Song 179 

The  Days  that  are  no  more 179 

Richard  Monckton  Milnes: 

The  Brook-Side iSo 

The  Treasure  Ship 181 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray  : 

At  the  Church  Gate 182 

The  Age  of  Wisdom •  .     j3 


xxxviii  CONTENTS. 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doylb  :  page 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs 184 

Alfred  Domett : 

What  matter  ? 185 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  : 

A  Musical  Instrument 186 

A  False  Step 187 

The  Sea-Mew 188 

Sonnets  ( Unlike  are  we) 189 

( Go  from  me  !) 19° 

(,Say  over  again  f) 190 

{First  time  he  kiss'd  me) 191 

Robert  Browning  : 

The  Lost  Leader 191 

The  Moth's  Kiss 192 

Evelyn  Hope I93 

Night  and  Morning I94 

Robert  Nicoll: 

Bonnie  Bessie  Lee , I9S 

Menie 196 

The  Grave  of  Burns 196 

Thomas  Osborne  Davis  : 

The  Welcome I97 

William  Bkll  Scott  : 

The  Norns  watering  Yggdrasill 198 

Parting  and  Meeting  again 200 

Pygmalion 200 

Rose-Leaves 201 

William  James  Linton: 

Bridal  Song 201 

The  Happy  Land 202 

Iphigcneia  at  Aulis 203 


CONTENTS.  XXXIX 

Aubrey  Thomas  de  Vere  :  pagb 

Song  {Seek  not  the  tree) 203 

Sorrow 204 

Song  {Love  laid  down) 205 

{Softly,  O  midnight  Hours  /) 205 

Nothing  more 206 

Thomas  Burbidge  : 

Love's  Insistence 206 

Charles  George  Rosenberg  : 

The  Winged  Horse 207 

Henry  Septimus  Sutton  : 

The  Battle  of  God 210 

Charles  Weldon  : 

The  Poem  of  the  Universe 211 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough : 

Peschiera 211 

Not  unavailing 213 

Julia  Ward  Howe  : 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic , 213 

Walt  Whitman  : 

Pioneers 214 

The  Soldier's  Letter 219 

Thomas  William  Parsons  : 

Dirge 221 

Saint  Peray 221 

Charles  Kingsley : 

To  •'te  North-East  Wind 224 

The  Sands  of  Dee 226 

A  Hope 227 

Mary  Ann  Evans  Lewes  : 

The  Dark 227 


Xl  CONTENTS. 

James  Russell  Lowell:  page 

Hebe 228 

The  Courtin' 229 

The  Fountain 232 

She  Came  and  Went 233 

Maria  White  Lowell: 

An  Opium  Fantasy 233 

William  Ross  Wallace  : 

El  Amin— The  Faithful 23S 

Ebbnezer  Jones: 

Rain 237 

When  the  World  is  burning 237 

Denis  Florence  McCarthy: 

Summer  Longings • 238 

Frederick  Locker  : 

The  Unrealized  Ideal 240 

Alice  Cary  : 

Open  Secrets 240 

Phcebe  Cary: 

The  Maiden's  Song 241 

Alas! 242 

Matthew  Arnold  : 

Philomela 243 

Growing  Old 244 

William  (Johnson)  Cory: 

Mimnermus  in  Church 245 

A  French  Sailor's  Scottish  Sweetheart 246 

Sydney  Thompson  Dobell: 

A  Sleep  Song 246 

Hows  my  Boy  ? -48 


CONTENTS.  xli 

Henry  Howard  Brownell  :  page 

The  Burial  of  the  Dane 249 

Qu'ilmourut! 251 

George  William  Curtis: 

Song  (Rushes  lean  over) 251 

Major  and  Minor 252 

Thomas  d'Arcy  McGke  : 

The  Penitent  Raven 252 

Bayard  Taylor : 

The  Wisdom  of  Ali 253 

Bedouin  Song 255 

The  Arab  to  the  Palm 256 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard : 

Brahma's  Answer 257 

Ajar  of  Wine 259 

Under  the  Rose 259 

Elizabeth  Drew  Barstow  Stoddard  : 

Mercedes 260 

Adelaide  Anne  Procter  : 

A  Woman's  Questioning 261 

Lucy  Larcom  : 

Sleep-Song 262 

Mortimer  Collins: 

Snow  and  Sun 263 

William  Allingham  : 

The  Touchstone 264 

Arthur  Joseph  Munby: 

Violet 265 

Mary  Anerley 267 


xHi  CONTENTS. 

Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  :  i-agb 

The  Card-Dealer 268 

First  Love  remembered 270 

Lilith 270 

True  Woman 271 

Lost  Days 271 

Christina  Georgina  Rossetti  : 

Song  (  WAen  I  am  dead) 272 

The  Bourne 272 

Jean  Ingelow  : 

Expecting 273 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman  : 

The  Doorstep 274 

Toujours  Amour 275 

Mine 276 

Georgk  Arnold : 

Gloria 277 

John  Nichol: 

Impatience 278 

Lewis  Morris  : 

Love's  Suicide 279 

Helen  Fiskk  Jackson  : 

Coronation 280 

William  Morris  : 

Song  {Fair  is  the  night) 2S1 

Before  our  Lady  came 282 

John  James  Piatt  : 

The  Old  Man  and  the  Spring-Leaves 284 

Celia  Leighton  Thaxtkr  : 

Medrake  and  Osprey 285 


CONTENTS.  xliii 

Byron  Forceythe  Willson  :  page 

The  Estray 286 

Autumn-Song 287 

William  Winter  : 

Love's  Queen 287 

After  all 288 

The  Last  Scene 289 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich  : 

Palabras  Carinosas 290 

Tiger-Lilies 290 

Richard  Garnett  : 

Violets 2QI 

Fading  Leaf  and  Fallen  Leaf 292 

Thomas  Ashb : 

Dallying 292 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  : 

Before  the  Mirror 293 

Chorus — from  Atalanta  in  Calydon 295 

The  Sundew 297 

Rondel 298 

James  Thomson  : 

The  Three  that  shall  be  One 299 

Waiting 301 

John  Hay: 

A  Woman's  Love 302 

Henry  Austin  Dobson  : 

Before  Sedan 303 

Robert  Williams  Buchanan  : 

The  Modern  Warrior 304 

Robert  Bridges: 

The  Sea-Poppy 307 


xliv  CONTENTS. 

Edmund  William  Gosse  :  page 

The  Suppliant 308 

Thbophile  Marzials: 

Rondel 308 

Pakenham  Thomas  Bbatty : 

In  my  Dreams 309 

Andrew  Lang  : 

In  Ithaca 309 

William  Davies  : 

Doing  and  Being 310 

Notes 311 

Index  to  First  Lines 329 


LYRICS 


OF  THE 


XIX™    CENTURY 


Song  should  breathe  of  scents  and  flowers ; 

Song  should  like  a  river  flow  ; 
Song  should  bring  back  scenes  and  hours 

That  we  loved — ah  !  long  ago. 

Song  from  baser  thoughts  should  win  us  ; 

Song  should  charm  us  out  of  woe  ; 
Song  should  stir  the  heart  within  us, 

Like  a  patriot's  friendly  blow. 

Pains  and  pleasures,  all  man  docth, 

War  and  peace,  and  right  and  wrong. 
All  things  that  the  soul  subdueth 

Should  be  vanquish'd  too  by  Song. 

Song  should  spur  the  mind  to  duty, 

Nerve  the  weak,  and  stir  the  strong  ; 
Every  deed  of  truth  and  beauty 

Should  be  crown'd  by  starry  Song. 

Bakry  Cornwall. 


Lyrics  of  the  XlXth  Century, 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 
1770— 1850. 


INVOCATION. 

TO  THE   POWER    OF    SOUND. 

Thy  functions  are  ethereal, 

As  if  within  thee  dwelt  a  glancing  mind, 

Organ  of  Vision  !     And  a  Spirit  aerial 

Informs  the  cell  of  Hearing,  dark  and  blind  : 

Intricate  labyrinth,  more  dread  for  thought 

To  enter  than  oracular  cave  : 

Strict  passage,  through  which  sighs  are  brought, 

And  whispers  for  the  heart,  their  slave  ; 

And  shrieks  that  revel  in  abuse 

Of  shivering  flesh  ;   and  warbled  air, 

Whose  piercing  sweetness  can  unloose 

The  chains  of  frenzy  or  entice  a  smile 

Into  the  ambush  of  despair  ; 

Hozannas  pealing  down  the  long-drawn  aisle  ; 

And  requiems  answer'd  by  the  pulse  that  beats 

Devoutly  in  life's  last  retreats. 

The  headlong  streams  and  fountains 
Serve  thee  !   Invisible  Spirit  !  with  untired  powers  : 
Cheering  the  wakeful  tent  on  Syrian  mountains. 
They  lull  perchance  ten  thousand  thousand  flowers. 
That  roar,  the  prowling  lion's  "  Here  I  am  !" 
II.— I 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

How  fearful  to  the  desert  wide  ! 

That  bleat,  how  tender  !  of  the  dam 

Calling  a  straggler  to  her  side. 

Shout,  cuckoo  !  let  the  vernal  soul 

Go  with  thee  to  the  frozen  zone  ; 

Toll  from  thy  loftiest  perch,  lone  bell-bird !  toll, 

At  the  still  hour  to  Mercy  dear  : 

Mercy  from  her  twilight  throne 

Listening  to  nun's  faint  throb  of  holy  fear, 

To  sailor's  prayer  breathed  from  a  darkening  sea, 

Or  widow's  cottage-lullaby. 

Ye  Voices  !  and  ye  Shadows 

And  Images  of  Voice,  to  hound  and  horn 

From  rocky  steep  and  rock-bestudded  meadows 

Flung  back  and  in  the  sky's  blue  caves  reborn  ! 

On  with  your  pastime,  till  the  church-tower  bells 

A  greeting  give  of  measured  glee  ; 

And  milder  Echoes  from  their  cells 

Repeat  the  bridal  symphony. 

Then,  or  far  earlier,  let  us  rove 

Where  mists  are  breaking  up  or  gone, 

And  from  aloft  look  down  into  a  cove 

Besprinkled  with  a  careless  quire  : 

Happy  milkmaids,  one  by  one 

Scattering  a  ditty  each  to  her  desire, — 

A  liquid  concert  matchless  by  nice  art, 

A  stream  as  if  from  one  full  heart. 

Bless'd  be  the  song  that  brightens 

The  blind  nian's  gloom,  exalts  the  veteran's  mirtli ! 

Unscorn'd  the  peasant's  whistling  breath  that  lightens 

His  duteous  toil  of  furrowing  the  green  earth  ! 

For  the  tired  slave  Song  lifts  the  languid  oar, 

And  bids  it  aptly  fall,  with  chime 

That  beautifies  the  fairest  shore 

And  mitigates  the  harshest  clime. 

Yon  pilgrims  see  ! — in  lagging  file 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

They  move  ;  but  soon  the  appointed  way 

A  choral  "  Av^,  Marie  !  "  shall  beguile, 

And  to  their  hope  the  distant  shrine 

Glisten  with  a  livelier  ray. 

Nor  friendless  he,  the  prisoner  of  the  mine, 

Who  from  the  well-spring  of  his  own  clear  breast 

Can  draw,  and  sing  his  griefs  to  rest. 

When  civic  renovation 

Dawns  on  a  kingdom,  and  for  needful  haste 

Best  eloquence  avails  not.  Inspiration 

Mounts  with  a  tune  that  travels  like  a  blast, 

Piping  through  cave  and  battlemented  tower  : 

Then  starts  the  sluggard,  pleased  to  meet 

That  voice  of  Freedom  in  its  power 

Of  promises,  shrill,  wild  and  sweet. 

Who  from  a  martial  pageant  spreads 

Incitements  of  a  battle-day, 

Thrilling  the  unweapon'd  crowd  with  plumcless  heads  ? 

Even  She  whose  Lydian  airs  inspire 

Peaceful  striving,  gentle  play 

Of  timid  hope  and  innocent  desire 

Shot  from  the  dancing  Graces  as  they  move 

Fann'd  by  the  plausive  wings  of  Love. 

How  oft  along  thy  mazes, 

Regent  of  Sound  !  have  dangerous  passions  trod. 

O  thou  !  through  whom  the  temple  rings  with  praises, 

And  blackening  clouds  in  thunder  speak  of  God, 

Betray  not  by  the  cozenage  of  sense 

Thy  votaries,  wooingly  resign'd 

To  a  voluptuous  influence 

That  taints  the  purer,  better  mind  ; 

But  lead  sick  Fancy  to  a  harp 

That  hath  in  noble  tasks  been  tried  ! 

And,  if  the  virtuous  feel  a  pang  too  sharp, 

Soothe  it  into  patience  ! — stay 

The  uplifted  arm  of  Suicide ; 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

And  let  some  mood  of  thine  in  firm  array 
Knit  every  thought  the  impending  issue  needs, 
Ere  martyr  burns  or  patriot  bleeds  ! 

As  Conscience  to  the  centre 

Of  Being  smites  with  irresistible  pain, 

So  shall  a  solemn  cadence,  if  it  enter 

The  mouldy  vaults  of  the  dull  idiot's  brain, 

Transmute  him  to  a  wretch  from  quiet  hurl'd, 

Convulsed  as  by  a  jarring  din  ; 

And  then  aghast,  as  at  the  world 

Of  reason  partially  let  in 

By  concords  winding  with  a  sway 

Terrible  for  sense  and  soul  : 

Or  awed  he  weeps,  struggling  to  quell  dismay. 

Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  art. 

Lodged  above  the  starry  pole  ? 

Pure  modulations  flowing  from  the  heart 

Of  Divine  Love,  where  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Truth, 

With  Order,  dwell  in  endless  youth. 

Oblivion  may  not  cover 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  miser  Time. 

Orphean  Insight !     Truth's  undaunted  lover, 

To  the  first  leagues  of  tutor'd  passion  climb, 

When  Music  deign'd  within  this  grosser  sphere 

Her  subtle  essence  to  enfold. 

And  voice  and  shell  drew  forth  a  tear 

Softer  than  Nature's  self  could  mould. 

Yet  strenuous  was  the  infant  age  : 

Art,  daring  because  souls  could  feel, 

Stirr'd  nowhere  but  an  urgent  equipage 

Of  rapt  imagination  sped  her  march 

Through  the  realms  of  woe  and  weal  : 

Hell  to  the  lyre  bow'd  low  ;  the  upper  arch 

Rejoiced  that  clamorous  spell  and  magic  verse 

Her  wan  disasters  could  disperse. 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH, 

The  Gift  to  King  Amphion, 

That  wall'd  a  city  with  its  melody, 

Was  for  belief  no  dream.     Thy  skill,  Arion  ! 

Could  humanize  the  creatures  of  the  sea. 

Where  men  were  monsters  :  a  last  grace  he  craves, 

Leave  for  one  chant  ;   the  dulcet  sound 

Steals  from  the  deck  o'er  willing  waves, 

And  listening  dolphins  gather  round  ; 

Self-cast,  as  with  a  desperate  course 

'Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 

A  proud  One  docile  as  a  managed  horse, 

And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand 

Sweeps  his  harp,  the  Master  rides  ; 

So  shall  he  touch  at  length  a  friendly  strand, 

And  he  with  his  preserver  shine  star-bright 

In  memory,  through  silent  night. 

The  pipe  of  Pan  to  shepherds 

Couch'd  in  the  shadow  of  Maenalian  pines 

Was  passing  sweet  ;  the  eyeballs  of  the  leopards 

That  in  high  triumph  drew  the  Lord  of  Vines, 

How  did  they  sparkle  to  the  cymbals'  clang  ! 

While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  beat  the  ground 

In  cadence,  and  Silenus  swang 

This  way  and  that,  with  wild-flowers  crown'd. 

To  life,  to  life  give  back  thine  ear  ! 

Ye,  who  are  longing  to  be  rid 

Of  fable  though  to  truth  subservient !  hear 

The  little  sprinkling  of  cold  earth  that  fell 

Echoed  from  the  coffin-lid  ; 

The  convict's  summons  in  the  steeple's  knell ; 

The  vain  distress-gun,  from  a  leeward  shore 

Repeated,  heard, — and  heard  no  more. 

For  terror,  joy,  or  pity, 

Vast  is  the  compass  and  the  swell  of  notes  : 

From  the  babe's  first  cry  to  voice  of  regal  city 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

Rolling  a  solemn  sea-like  bass,  that  floats 

Far  as  the  woodlands,  with  the  trill  to  blend 

Of  that  shy  songstress  whose  love-tale 

Might  tempt  an  angel  to  descend 

While  hovering  o'er  the  moonlight  vale. 

Ye  wandering  Utterances  !  has  earth  no  scheme, 

No  scale  of  moral  music,  to  unite 

Powers  that  survive  but  in  the  faintest  dream 

Of  memory  ?     O  that  ye  might  stoop  to  bear 

Chains,  such  precious  chains  of  sight 

As  labour'd  minstrelsies  through  ages  wear ! 

O  for  a  balance  fit  the  truth  to  tell 

Of  the  Unsubstantial,  ponder'd  well ! 

By  one  pervading  spirit 

Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controul'd  : 

As  sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found  to  merit 

Initiation  in  that  mystery  old. 

The  heavens,  whose  aspect  makes  our  minds  as  still 

As  they  themselves  appear  to  be, 

Innumerable  voices  fill 

With  everlasting  harmony ; 

The  towering  headlands,  crown'd  with  mist, 

Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 

That  Ocean  is  a  mighty  harmonist ; 

Thy  pinions,  universal  Air  I 

Ever  waving  to  and  fro. 

Are  delegates  of  harmony,  and  bear 

Strains  that  support  the  Seasons  in  their  round  : 

Stern  Winter  loves  a  dirge-like  sound. 

Break  forth  into  thanksgiving. 

Ye  banded  instruments  of  wind  and  chords  ! 

Unite,  to  magnify  the  Ever-living, 

Your  inarticulate  notes  with  the  voice  of  words  ! 

Nor  hush'd  be  service  from  the  lowing  mead; 

Nor  mute  the  forest  hum  of  noon  ! 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

Thou  too  be  heard,  lone  eagle  !  freed 

From  snowy  peak  and  cloud,  attune 

Thy  hungry  barkings  to  the  hymn 

Of  joy  that  from  her  utmost  walls 

The  Six-days'  Work  by  flaming  Seraphim 

Transmits  to  Heaven.     As  Deep  to  Deep 

Shouting  through  one  valley  calls. 

All  worlds,  all  natures  mood  and  measure  keep 

For  praise  and  ceaseless  gratulation,  pour'd 

Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord. 

A  Voice  to  light  gave  being. 

To  Time,  and  Man,  his  earth-born  chronicler; 

A  Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  foreseeing, 

And  sweep  away  life's  visionary  stir  : 

The  trumpet  (we  intoxicate  with  pride 

Arm  at  its  blast  for  deadly  wars). 

To  archangelic  lips  applied, 

The  grave  shall  open,  quench  the  stars. 

O  Silence  !  are  Man's  noisy  years 

No  more  than  moments  of  thy  life  ? 

Is  Harmony,  bless'd  queen  of  smiles  and  tears, 

With  her  smooth  tones  and  discords  just 

Temper'd  into  rapturous  strife. 

Thy  destined  bond-slave  ?     No  !  though  earth  be  dust 

And  vanish,  though  the  heavens  dissolve,  her  stay 

Is  in  The  Word,  that  shall  not  pass  away. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  : 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ! 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 


WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  Humanity  ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  :  who  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth. 
Glad  Hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work  and  know  it  not : 
Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last  ! 
But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stand  fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security  : 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed, 
Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried. 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide. 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust ; 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray : 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought 
I  supplicate  for  thy  controul, 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 
Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tries, 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires, 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name ; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  9 

Stern  Law-giver  !     Yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace; 
Nor  Isnow  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens  through  Thee   are   fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humble  functions,  awful  Power  I 
I  call  thee  :   I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour. 
O,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And  in  the  light  of  Truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live  ! 

NATURE'S  DARLING. 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  : 
Then  Nature  said — A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 
This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 
She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  Lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  ;  and  with  me 

The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 
In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power. 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 


lO  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

And  hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  slate  shall  lend 
To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell  : 
Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 
While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell. — 

Thus  Nature  spake  :  the  work  was  done. 
How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run ! 

She  died  :  and  left  to  me 
This  health,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene. 
The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

THE  TRIAD. 

Show  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time 
Whose  trembling  fancy  would  to  love  give  birth  ; 
Some  God,  or  Hero  from  the  Olympian  clime 
Return'd  to  seek  a  Consort  upon  earth  ! 
Or,  in  no  doubtful  prospect,  let  me  see 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  H 

The  brightest  Star  of  ages  yet  to  be  ! 
And  I  will  mate  and  match  him  blissfully. 

I  will  not  fetch  a  Naiad  from  a  flood 

Pure  as  herself  (Song  lacks  not  mightier  power), 

Nor  leaf-crown'd  Dryad  from  a  pathless  wood, 

Nor  Sea-Nymph  glistening  from  her  coral  bower  : 

Mere  Mortals,  bodied  forth  in  vision,  still 

Shall  with  Mount  Ida's  triple  lustre  fill 

The  chaster  coverts  of  a  British  hill. 

Appear  !  obey  my  lyre's  command  ! 

Come,  like  the  Graces,  hand  in  hand ! 

For  ye,  though  not  by  birth  allied, 

Are  Sisters  in  the  bond  of  love  ; 

Nor  shall  the  tongue  of  envious  pride 

Presume  those  interweavings  to  reprove 

In  you,  which  that  fair  progeny  of  Jove 

Learn'd  from  the  tuneful  spheres  that  glide 

In  endless  union  earth  and  sea  above. 

— I  sing  in  vain  : — the  pines  have  hush'd  their  waving  : 

A  peerless  Youth  expectant  at  my  side, 

Breathless  as  they,  with  unabated  craving 

Looks  to  the  earth  and  to  the  vacant  air 

And,  with  a  wandering  eye  that  seems  to  chide, 

Asks  of  the  clouds  what  occupants  they  hide. 

But  why  solicit  more  than  sight  could  bear 

By  casting  on  a  moment  all  we  dare  ? 

Invoke  we  those  bright  Beings,  one  by  one  ! 

And  what  was  boldly  promised  truly  shall  be  done. 

Fear  not  a  constraining  measure  ! 
— Yielding  to  this  gentle  spell, 
Lucida  !  from  domes  of  pleasure. 
Or  from  cottage-sprinkled  dell, 
Come  to  regions  solitary 
Where  the  eagle  builds  her  aery 
Above  the  hermit's  long-forsaken  cell  ! 


12  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

She  comes  !     Behold 
That  Figure,  hke  a  ship  with  snow-white  sail ! 
Nearer  she  draws  ;  a  breeze  uplifts  her  veil ; 
"Upon  her  coming  wait 
As  pure  a  sunshine  and  as  soft  a  gale 
As  e'er  on  herbage  covering  earthly  mould 
Tempted  the  bird  of  Juno  to  unfold 
His  richest  splendour,  when  his  veering  gait 
And  every  motion  of  his  starry  train 
Seem  governed  by  a  strain 
Of  music,  audible  to  him  alone. 

O  Lady  !  worthy  of  earth's  proudest  throne, 

Nor  less,  by  excellence  of  nature,  fit 

Beside  an  unambitious  hearth  to  sit, 

Domestic  queen,  where  grandeur  is  unknown  : 

What  living  man  could  fear 

The  worst  of  Fortune's  malice  wert  Thou  near, 

Humbling  that  lily-stem,  thy  sceptre  meek, 

That  its  fair  flowers  may  from  his  cheek 

Brush  the  too  happy  tear  ? 

Queen  and  handmaid  lowly  ! 

Whose  skill  can  speed  the  day  with  lively  cares, 

And  banish  melancholy 

By  all  that  mind  invents  or  hand  prepares  : 

O  Tliou  !  against  whose  lip,  without  its  smile. 

And  in  its  silence  even,  no  heart  is  proof ; 

Whose  goodness,  sinking  deep,  would  reconcile 

The  softest  nursling  of  a  gorgeous  palace 

To  the  bare  life  beneath  the  hawthorn  roof 

Of  Sherwood's  Archer,  or  in  caves  of  Wallace  : 

Who  that  hath  seen  thy  beauty  could  content 

His  soul  with  but  a  glimpse  of  heavenly  day? 

Who  that  hath  loved  thee  but  would  lay 

His  strong  hand  on  the  Wind  if  it  were  bent 

To  take  thee  in  thy  majesty  away  ? 

—Pass  onward  !     Even  the  glancing  deer 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  I3 

Till  we  depart  intrude  not  here  : 

That  mossy  slope,  o'er  which  the  woodbine  throws 

A  canopy,  is  smoothed  for  thy  repose. 

Glad  moment  is  it  when  the  throng 

Of  warblers  in  full  concert  strong 

Strive,  and  not  vainly  strive  to  rout 

The  lagging  shower,  and  force  coy  Phoebus  out, — 

Met  by  the  rainbow's  form  divine, 

Issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine  : 

So  may  the  thrillings  of  the  lyre 

Prevail  to  further  our  desire, 

While  to  these  shades  a  sister  Nymph  I  call. 

Come,  if  the  notes  thine  ear  rnay  pierce. 

Come,  Youngest  of  the  Lovely  Three  ! 

Submissive  to  the  might  of  Verse 

And  the  dear  voice  of  Harmony, 

By  none  more  deeply  felt  than  thee. 

— I  sang  ;  and  lo  !  from  pastimes  virginal 

She  hastens  to  the  tents 

Of  Nature  and  the  lonely  elements. 

Air  sparkles  round  her  with  a  dazzling  sheen  ; 

But  mark  her  glowing  cheek,  her  vesture  green ! 

And,  as  if  wishful  to  disarm 

Or  to  repay  the  potent  Charm, 

She  bears  the  stringed  lute  of  old  Romance, 

That  cheer'd  the  trellis'd  arbour's  privacy. 

And  soothed  war-wearied  knights  in  rafter'd  hall. 

How  vivid,  yet  how  delicate  her  glee  ! 

So  tripp'd  the  Muse,  inventress  of  the  dance  : 

So,  truant  in  waste  woods,  the  blithe  Euphrosyne. 

But  the  ringlets  of  that  head, 
Why  are  they  ungarlanded  ? 
Why  bedeck  her  temples  less 
Than  the  simplest  shepherdess  ? 


14  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

Is  it  not  a  brow  inviting 

Choicest  flowers  that  ever  breathed, 

Which  the  myrtle  would  delight  in, 

With  Idalian  rose  enwreathed  ? 

But  her  humility  is  well  content 

With  one  wild  floweret  (call  it  not  forlorn  !) — 

Flower-of-thc-winds,  beneath  her  bosom  worn. 

But  more  for  love  than  ornament. 

Open,  ye  thickets  !  let  her  fly. 

Swift  as  a  Thracian  Nymph  o'er  field  and  height  : 

For  she,  to  all  but  those  who  love  her  shy, 

Would  gladly  vanish  from  a  stranger's  sight ; 

Though  where  she  is  beloved  and  loves 

Light  as  the  wheeling  butterfly  she  moves  : 

Her  happy  spirit  as  a  bird  is  free 

That  rifles  blossoms  on  a  tree, 

Turning  them  inside  out  with  arch  audacity. 

Alas  !  how  little  can  a  moment  show 

Of  an  eye  where  feeling  plays 

In  ten  thousand  dewy  rays  ; 

A  face  o'er  which  a  thousand  shadows  go  ! 

She  stops, — is  fasten'd  to  that  rivulet's  side  ; 

And  there  (while  with  sedater  mien 

O'er  timid  waters  that  have  scarcely  left 

Their  birth-place  in  the  rocky  cleft 

She  bends)  at  leisure  may  be  seen 

Features,  to  old  ideal  grace  allied, 

Amid  their  smiles  and  dimples  dignified  : 

Fit  countenance  for  the  soul  of  primal  truth. 

The  bland  composure  of  eternal  youth  ! 

What  more  changeful  than  the  sea  ? 

But  over  his  great  tides 

Fidelity  presides  : 

And  this  light-hearted  Maiden  constant  is  as  he. 

High  is  her  aim  as  heaven  above. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  1 5 

And  wide  as  ether  her  good-will ; 

And,  like  the  lowly  reed,  her  love 

Can  drink  its  nurture  from  the  scantiest  rill ; 

Insight  as  keen  as  frosty  star 

Is  to  her  charity  no  bar, 

Nor  interrupts  her  frohc  graces 

When  she  is,  far  from  these  wild  places. 

Encircled  by  familiar  faces. 

O  the  charm  that  manners  draw, 

Nature  !  from  thy  genuine  law  : 

If  from  what  her  hand  would  do. 

Her  voice  would  utter,  aught  ensue 

Untoward  or  unfit, 

She  in  benign  affections  pure, 

In  self-forgetfulness  secure, 

Sheds  round  the  transient  harm  or  vague  mischance 

A  light  unknown  to  tutor'd  elegance  : 

Hers  is  not  a  cheek  shame-stricken  ; 

But  her  blushes  are  joy-flushes, 

And  the  fault,  if  fault  it  be. 

Only  ministers  to  quicken 

Laughter-loving  gaiety, 

And  kindle  sportive  wit, — 

Leaving  this  Daughter  of  the  Mountains  free 

As  if  she  knew  that  Oberon,  King  of  Faery, 

Had  cross'd  her  purpose  with  some  vague  vagary, 

And  heard  his  viewless  bands 

Over  their  mirthful  triumph  clapping  hands. 

—Last  of  the  Three,  though  eldest  born! 

Reveal  thyself,  like  pensive  Morn 

Touch'd  by  the  skylark's  earliest  note. 

Ere  humbler  gladness  be  afloat. 

But  whether  in  the  semblance  dress'd 

Of  Dawn,  or  Eve  (fair  Vision  of  the  West), 

Come  with  each  anxious  hope  subdued 


l6  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH. 

By  woman's  gentle  fortitude, 

Each  grief  through  meekness  settling  into  rest ! 

Or  I  would  hail  thee  when  some  high-wrought  page 

Of  a  closed  volume  lingering  in  thy  hand 

Has  raised  thy  spirit  to  a  peaceful  stand 

Among  the  glories  of  a  happier  age. 

Her  brow  hath  open'd  on  me  :  see  it  there 

Brightening  the  umbrage  of  her  hair  ! 

So  gleams  the  crescent  moon,  that  loves 

To  be  descried  through  shady  groves. 

Tenderest  bloom  is  on  her  cheek  : 

Wish  not  for  a  richer  streak, 

Nor  dread  the  depth  of  meditative  eye  ! 

But  let  thy  love,  upon  that  azure  field 

Of  thoughtfulness  and  beauty,  yield 

Its  homage,  offer'd  up  in  purity  ! 

What  wouldst  thou  more  ?     In  sunny  glade, 

Or  under  leaves  of  thickest  shade, 

Was  such  a  stillness  e'er  diffused 

Since  earth  grew  calm  while  angels  mused  ? 

Softly  she  treads,  as  if  her  foot  were  loath 

To  crush  the  mountain  dew-drops,  soon  to  melt 

On  the  flower's  breast, — as  if  she  felt 

That  flowers  themselves,  whate'er  their  hue. 

With  all  their  fragrance,  all  their  glistening, 

Call  to  the  heart  for  inward  listening  ; 

And  though  for  bridal  wreaths  and  tokens  true 

Welcomed  wisely,  though  a  growth 

Which  the  careless  shepherd  sleeps  on, 

As  fitly  spring  from  turf  the  mourner  weeps  on. 

And  without  wrong  are  cropp'd  the  marble  tomb  to  strew, 

The  Charm  is  over!  the  mute  Phantoms  gone, 
Nor  will  return  !     But  droop  not,  favour'd  Youth  ! 
The  apparition  that  before  thee  shone 
Obey'd  a  summons  covetous  of  truth. 


WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH.  1/ 

From  these  wild  rocks  thy  footsteps  I  will  guide 

To  bowers  in  which  thy  fortune  may  be  tried, 

And  one  of  the  Bright  Three  become  thy  happy  Bride. 

NATURAL   PIETY. 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die  ! 
The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  : 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

SONNETS. 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ! 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 

Breathless  with  adoration ;  the  broad  sun 

Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  broods  o'er  the  sea  : 

Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 

A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child  !  dear  Girl !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 

If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year. 

And  worship's!  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 

God  bein<^  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 


This  world  is  too  much  with  us  :  late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  of  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away, — a  sordid  boon  ! 

II. -2 


1 8  WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 

This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, — 
The  winds,  that  will  be  howUng  at  all  hours. 
And  are  upgather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, — 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan,  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn  : 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea. 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain. 

Dwells  in  the  affections  and  the  soul  of  man 

A  Godhead,  like  the  universal  Pan, 

But  more  exalted,  with  a  brighter  train  : 

And  shall  his  bounty  be  dispensed  in  vain, 

Shower'd  equally  on  city  and  on  field. 

And  neither  hope  nor  steadfast  promise  yield 

In  these  usurping  times  of  fear  and  pain  ? 

Such  doom  awaits  us.     Nay  !  forbid  it.  Heaven  ! 

We  know  the  arduous  strife,  the  eternal  laws 

To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given,— 

High  sacrifice  and  labour  without  pause 

Even  to  the  death  :  else  wherefore  should  the  eye 

Of  man  converse  with  immortality  ? 


There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 
Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof  and  flower  and  wall 
Pent  in,  a  tyrant's  solitary  Thrall. 
'Tis  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air 
One  of  a  Nation  who  henceforth  must  wear 
Their  fetters  in  their  souls  :  for  who  could  be. 
Who,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition  free 
From  self-reproach,  reproach  that  he  must  share 
With  human  nature  ?     Never  be  it  ours 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR    COLERIDGE.  19 

To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shine, 
And  know  that  noble  feelings,  manly  powers, 
Instead  of  gathering  strength,  must  droop  and  pine ; 
And  earth,  with  all  her  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers, 
Fade  and  participate  in  man's  decline  ! 


Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne 

Which  mists  and  vapours  from  mine  eyes  did  shroud, 

Nor  view  of  who  might  sit  thereon  allow'd ; 

But  all  the  steps  and  ground  about  were  strown 

With  sights  the  ruefullest  that  flesh  and  bone 

Ever  put  on, — a  miserable  crowd, 

Sick,  hale,  old,  young,  who  cried  before  that  cloud— 

Thou  art  our  king,  O  Death  !  to  thee  we  groan." 

Those  steps  I  clomb,  the  mists  before  me  gave 

Smooth  way ;  and  I  beheld  the  face  of  One 

Sleeping  alone  within  a  mossy  cave. 

With  her  face  up  to  heaven,  that  seem'd  to  have 

Pleasing  remembrance  of  a  thought  foregone  : 

A  lovely  Beauty  in  a  summer  grave  ! 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 
1772— 1834. 


GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve, 


20  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve. 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  Usten'd  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  hngering  hght. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
]My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  : 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story, 
An  old  rude  song  that  suited  well 
The  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd,  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace, 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  bore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  how  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  : 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd,  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  1  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 


SAMUEL   TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.  21 

And  how  he  roam'd  the  mountain  woods, 
Nor  rested,  day  or  night ; 

And  how  he  cross'd  the  woodman's  paths. 
Through  briars  and  swampy  mosses  beat ; 
How  boughs  rebounding  scourged  his  hmbs. 
And  low  stubs  gored  his  feet ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, 

There  came,  and  look'd  him  in  the  face, 
An  Angel  beautiful  and  bright, 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ; 

And  how,  unknowing  what  he  did. 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ; 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain. 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; 

And  how  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  that  his  madness  went  away 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; 

His  dying  words  ; — But  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve  : 


22  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long. 

She  wept,  with  pity  and  delight  ; 
She  blush'd,  with  love  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And,  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved, — she  stepp'd  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd  ; 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye. 
She  fled  to  me,  and  wept. 

She  half-enclosed  me  in  her  arms  ; 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart, 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm. 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  : 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

NAMES. 

I  ask'd  my  Fair,  one  happy  day, 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay, — 
By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome  or  Greece  : 
Lalag^,  Neasra,  Chloris, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE.  23 

Sappho,  Lesbia,  or  Doris, 
Arethusa,  or  Lucrece. 

Ah  !  rephed  my  gentle  Fair  : 
Beloved  !  what  are  names  but  air  ? 
Choose  thou  whatever  suits  the  line ! 

Call  me  Sappho,  call  me  Chloris, 

Call  me  Lalage,  or  Doris, — 

Only,  only  call  me  Thine  ! 

TO  A    YOUNG  ASS. 

Its  mother  being  tethered  near  it. 

Poor  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  race  ! 

I  love  the  languid  patience  of  thy  face  ; 

And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 

And  clap  thy  ragged  coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 

But  what  thy  dulled  spirits  hath  dismay'd. 

That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  ; 

And,  most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young, 

That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  hung  ? 

Do  thy  prophetic  fears  anticipate. 

Meek  Child  of  Misery  !  thy  future  fate  : 

The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 

That  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes  ? 

Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thrill'd  with  filial  pain 

To  see  thy  wretched  mother's  shorten'd  chain  ? 

And  truly,  very  piteous  is  her  lot, 

Chain'd  to  a  log  within  a  narrow  spot 

Where  the  close-eaten  grass  is  scarcely  seen. 

While  sweet  around  her  waves  the  tempting  green. 

Poor  Ass  !  thy  master  should  have  learn'd  to  show 

Pity,  best  taught  by  fellowship  of  woe  : 

For  much  I  fear  me  that  he  lives  like  thee, 

Half  famish'd  in  a  land  of  luxury. 

How  askingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend  ! 

It  seems  to  say — And  have  I  then  one  friend  ? 


24  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Innocent  Foal !  thou  poor  despised  Forlorn  ! 

I  hail  thee  Brother,  spite  of  the  fool's  scorn  ; 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  dell 

Of  Peace  and  mild  Equality  to  dwell, 

Where  Toil  shall  call  the  charmer  Health  his  bride, 

And  Laughter  tickle  Plenty's  ribless  side. 

How  thou  wouldst  toss  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play, 

And  frisk  about,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay  ! 

Yea  !  and  more  musically  sweet  to  me 

Thy  dissonant  harsh  bray  of  joy  would  be 

Than  warbled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 

The  aching  of  pale  Fashion's  vacant  breast. 

LOVE  AND  HOPE    AND   PATIENCE  IN   EDUCATION. 

O'er  wayward  childhood  wouldst  thou  hold  firm  rule 

And  sun  thee  in  the  light  of  happy  faces, 

Love,  Hope,  and  Patience, — these  must  be  thy  Graces  ; 

And  in  thine  own  heart  let  them  first  keep  school  ! 

For,  as  old  Atlas  on  his  broad  neck  places 

Heaven's  starry  globe  and  there  sustains  it,  so 

Do  these  upbear  the  little  world  below 

Of  Education, — Patience,  Love,  and  Hope. 

Methinks  I  see  them  group'd  in  seemly  show, 

The  straiten'd  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope, 

And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow 

Distinctly,  blend  like  snow  emboss'd  in  snow. 

O  part  them  never  !     If  Hope  prostrate  lie. 

Love  too  will  sink  and  die. 
Pnit  love  is  subtle,  and  doth  proof  derive 
From  her  own  life  that  Hope  is  yet  alive  ; 
And  bending  o'er,  with  soul-transfusing  eyes, 
And  the  soft  murmurs  of  the  mother  dove, 
Woos  back  the  fleeting  spirit,  and  half  supplies  : 
Thus  Love  repays  to  Hope  what  Hope  first  gave  to  Love. 
Yet  haply  there  will  come  a  weary  day 

When,  ovcrtask'd  at  length, 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE.  25 

Both  Love  and  Hope  beneath  the  load  give  way. 
Then  with  a  statue's  smile,  a  statue's  strength, 
Stands  the  mute  sister.  Patience,  nothing  loath, 
And,  both  supporting,  does  the  work  of  both. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding  like  a  bee  : 
Both  were  mine  ;   Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young. 
When  I  was  young  ?     Ah,  woeful  when  ! 
Ah,  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along  ! 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide. 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in  it  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely,  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  : 
O  the  joys  that  came  down  shower-like 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  I  was  old  ?     Ah,  woeful  ere  ! 
Which  tells  me  Youth's  no  longer  here. 
O  youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet 
'Tis  known  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
ril  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit 
(It  can  not  be)  that  thou  art  gone. 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd, 


26  ROBERT   SOUTHEY. 

And  thou  wert  aye  a  masquer  bold  : 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 
To  make  beUeve  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size  ; 
But  Spring-tide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  thought :   so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  Morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  Eve  ; 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 

When  we  are  old  : 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking  leave  : 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest, 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismiss'd. 
Yet  hath  outstay'd  his  welcome -while 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 


ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 
1774— 1843. 


THE  HOLL  V  TREE. 

O  Reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  Holly  Tree  ? 
The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well  perceives 

Its  glossy  leaves 
Order'd  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  Atheist's  sophistries. 

Below,  a  circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
Wrinkled  and  keen  : 


ROBERT   SOUTHEY.  2/ 

No  grazing  cattle  through  their  prickly  round 

Can  reach  to  wound  ; 
But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear 
Smooth  and  unarm'd  the  pointless  leaves  appear. 

I  love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralize  ; 
And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  Holly  Tree 

Can  emblems  see 
Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad  perchance  I  might  appear 

Harsh  and  austere, 
To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude 

Reserved  and  rude, — 
Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I'd  be, 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly  Tree. 

And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt  I  know, 

Some  harshness  show. 
All  vain  asperities  I  day  by  day 

Would  wear  away. 
Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  Holly  Tree. 

And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 

So  bright  and  green. 
The  Holly  leaves  their  fadeless  hues  display 

Less  bright  than  they, 
But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  Holly  Tree,— 

So,  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 

The  thoughtless  throng, 
So  would  I  seem,  amid  the  young  and  gay 

More  grave  than  they, 
That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I  might  be 
As  the  green  winter  of  the  Holly  Tree. 


28  ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 

THE  SCHOLAR. 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  pass'd 

Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  Minds  of  Old  : 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they. 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe  ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  arc  with  the  Dead  :  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years  ; 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears  ; 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead ;  anon 

My  place  with  them  will  be  ; 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  futurity : 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust. 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust, 

ROBERT  TANNAHILL. 
1774 — 1810. 


LOVE'S  FEAR. 

O  sair  I  rue  the  witless  wish 

That  gart  me  gang  wi'  you  at  e'en  ! 

And  sair  I  rue  the  birken  bush 

That  screen'd  us  with  its  leaves  sac  green  ! 


ROBERT   TANNAHILL.  29 

And  though  you  vow'd  you  would  be  mine, 

The  tear  of  grief  aye  dims  my  ee, 
For  O  I'm  fear'd  that  I  may  tine 

The  love  that  ye  hae  promised  me 

While  others  seek  their  evening  sports, 

I  wander  dowie,  a'  my  lane  : 
For  when  I  join  their  glad  resorts 

Their  daffin'  gie's  me  mickle  pain. 
Alas  !  it  was  na  sae  short  syne, 

When  a'  my  nights  were  spent  wi'  glee  : 
But  O  I'm  fear'd  that  I  may  tine 

The  love  that  ye  hae  promised  me. 

Dear  Lassie  !  keep  thy  heart  aboon. 

For  I  hae  wair'd  my  winter's  fee  : 
I've  coft  a  bonnie  silken  gown 

To  be  a  bridal  gift  for  thee. 
And  sooner  shall  the  hills  fa'  down, 

And  mountain  high  shall  stand  the  sea, 
Ere  I'd  accept  a  gowden  crown 

To  change  that  love  I  bear  for  thee. 

MINE  AIN  DEAR  SOMEBOD  V. 

When  gloaming  treads  the  heels  of  day, 
And  birds  sit  cowering  on  the  spray, 
Alang  the  flowery  hedge  I  stray 

To  meet  mine  ain  dear  Somebody. 

The  scented  briar,  the  fragrant  bean. 
The  clover  bloom,  the  dewy  green, 
A'  charm  me  as  I  rove  at  e'en 

To  meet  mine  ain  dear  Somebody. 

Let  warriors  prize  the  hero's  name  ! 
Let  mad  Ambition  tower  for  fame  1 
I'm  happier  in  my  lowly  hame, 

Obscurely  bless'd  wi'  Somebody. 


so  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

1771— 1832. 


T/fE  CLAN-GATHERING. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  ! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  ! 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew ! 

Summon  Clan-Conuil ! 
Come  away  !  come  away  ! 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  Commons  ! 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  ! 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come,  every  hill-plaid  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one  ! 
Come,  every  steel  blade  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one  ! 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter  ! 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ! 
Leave  the  deer  !  leave  the  steer  ! 

Leave  nets  and  barges  ! 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes  ! 

Come,  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended  ! 
Come,  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded  ! 
Faster  come  !  faster  come  ! 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  31 

Faster  and  faster 

Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 
Tenant,  and  master ! 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  : 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids  !  draw  your  blades  I 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  ! 

Knell  for  the  onset  I 


JOCK    C   HAZELDEAN. 

*'  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ?  Lady  ! 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  shall  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  shall  be  his  bride,  Lady  ! 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  downfa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

*'  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done. 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ! 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale  ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  downfa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 
Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 


32 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

And  you  the  foremost  of  them  a' 

Shall  ride,  our  forest  queen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  downfa' 

For  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair  ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride. 

But  ne'er  a  bride  was  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha'  ; 

The  lady  was  not  seen  : 
She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  o'  Hazeldean. 


LIGHT  LOVE. 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  Maid  ! 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  : 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green, — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 
My  Love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow 

The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 

Ere  we  two  meet  again. 
He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  river  shore  ; 
He  gave  his  bridle  rein  a  shake, — 

Said  Adieu  forevermore, 

My  Love ! 
And  Adieu  forevermore  ! 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT.  33 

DEATH-CHANT. 

Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay. 
Wrestling  thus  with  earth  and  clay  ? 
From  the  body  pass  away  ! 

Hark !  the  mass  is  singing. 

From  thee  doff  thy  mortal  weed ! 
Mary  Mother  be  thy  speed  ! 
Saints  to  help  thee  at  thy  need  ! 
Hark  !  the  knell  is  ringing. 

Fear  not  snow-drift  driving  fast, 
Sleet,  or  hail,  or  levin  blast ! 
Soon  the  shroud  shall  lap  thee  fast, 
And  the  sleep  be  on  thee  cast 

That  shall  ne'er  know  waking. 

Haste  thee,  haste  thee  to  be  gone  ! 
Earth  flits  fast,  and  time  draws  on  : 
Gasp  thy  gasp,  and  groan  thy  groan ! 
Day  is  near  the  breaking. 

PROUD  MA  IS  IE. 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early  ; 
Sweet  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

"  Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird  ! 

When  shall  I  marry  me  ?  " 
*'  When  six  braw  gentlemen 

Kirkward  shall  carry  thee." 

"  Who  makes  the  bridal  bed  ? 

Birdie  !  say  truly." 
"  The  grey-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 

n— 3 


34  JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 

"  The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 
Shall  light  thee  steady  ; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 
Welcome,  proud  Lady  !  " 

JAMES   MONTGOMERY. 
1771—1854. 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 
Morning  : 

Golden  Bill  !  Golden  Bill ! 

Lo,  the  peep  of  day  : 
All  the  air  is  cool  and  still  : 
From  the  elm-tree  on  the  hill 

Chant  away  ! 
While  the  moon  drops  down  the  West, 
Like  thy  mate  upon  her  nest, 
And  the  stars  before  the  sun 
Melt  like  snowflakes,  one  by  one, 
Let  thy  loud  and  welcome  lay 
Pour  along 
Few  notes,  but  strong  ! 

Evening  : 

Jet-bright  Wing  !  Jet-bright  Wing  ! 

Flit  across  the  sunset  glade  : 
Lying  there  in  wait  to  sing, 
Listen  with  thy  head  awry, 
Keeping  time  with  twinkling  eye, 
While  from  all  the  woodland  shade 
Birds  of  every  plume  and  note 

Strain  the  throat, 
Till  both  hill  and  valley  ring, 
And  the  warbled  minstrelsy. 
Ebbing,  flowing,  like  the  sea. 
Claims  brief  interludes  from  thee  ! 


JAMES    HOGG.  35 

Then  with  simple  swell  and  fall, 
Breaking  beautiful  through  all, 
Let  thy  Pan-like  pipe  repeat 
Few  notes,  but  sweet ! 

WINTER   LIGHTNING. 

The  flash  at  midnight, — 'twas  a  light 
That  gave  the  blind  a  moment's  sight, 

Then  sunk  in  tenfold  gloom  ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  long,  the  thunder  broke, 
The  deaf  ear  instantly  awoke, 

Then  closed  as  in  the  tomb  : 
An  angel  might  have  pass'd  my  bed. 
Sounded  the  trump  of  God,  and  fled. 

So  Life  appears  :  a  sudden  birth, 

A  glance  revealing  heaven  and  earth  ; 

It  is,  and  it  is  not ! 
So  Fame  the  poet's  hope  deceives. 
Who  sings  for  after-time,  and  leaves 

A  name — to  be  forgot. 
Life  is  a  lightning-flash  of  breath  ; 
Fame  but  a  thunder-clap  at  death. 

JAMES    HOGG. 

1772—1835. 

TO  THE  LARK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, — 
Sweet  be  thy  matin,  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 

Emblem  of  happiness ! 

Bless'd  is  thy  dwelling-place  : 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 
Far  in  the  downy  cloud  : 


36  JAMES   HOGG. 

Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell,  and  fountain  sheen. 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  Day, 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  Cherub  !  soar  singing  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be  : 

Emblem  of  happiness  ! 

Bless'd  is  thy  dwelling-place  : 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 


MAGGIE  AWAY. 

O,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ? 
O  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ? 
There's  no  a  heart  in  a'  the  glen 

That  doesna  dread  the  day  : 
O,  what  will  a'  the  lads  do 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ? 

Young  Jock  has  ta'en  the  hill  for't,- 

A  waefu'  wight  is  he  ; 
Poor  Harry's  ta'en  the  bed  for't, 

And  laid  him  down  to  dee  ; 
And  Sandy's  gane  unto  the  kirk, 

And  learnin'  fast  to  pray  : 
And  O,  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ? 


CHARLES   LAMB.  37 

The  young  laird  o'  the  Lang-Shaw 

Has  drunk  her  health  in  wine  ; 
The  priest  has  said  (in  confidence) 

The  lassie  was  divine  : 
And  that  is  mair  in  maiden's  praise 

Than  any  priest  should  say  : 
But  O  !  what  will  the  lads  do 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ? 

The  wailing  in  our  green  glen 

That  day  will  quaver  high  ; 
'Twill  draw  the  red -breast  frae  the  wood, 

The  laverock  frae  the  sky  ; 
The  fairies  frae  their  beds  o'  dew 

Will  rise  and  join  the  lay  : 
And  hey  !  what  a  day  will  be 

When  Maggie  gangs  away  ! 

CHARLES  LAMB. 

1775— 1834. 


HESTER. 


When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  can  I  not  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 
That  flush'd  her  spirit : 


38  CHARLES  LAMB. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call, — if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, — 
Nature  had  bless'd  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  : 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  can  not  blind, — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  Neighbor  !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore  : 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 
Some  summer  morning  ? 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  ! 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies  : 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces! 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women  ; 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  ! 


CHARLES   LAMB.  39 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood  : 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom  !  thou  more  than  a  brother  ! 
Why  wert  thou  not  born  in  my  father's  dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces  : 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left  me, 
And  some  are  taken  from  me, — all  are  departed. 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces  ! 


THE  GYPSY'S  MALISON. 

Suck,  baby  !  suck  !  mother's  love  grows  by  giving : 
Drain  the  sweet  founts  that  only  thrive  by  wasting  ! 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  riotous  guilty  living 
Hands  thee  the  cup  that  shall  be  death  in  tasting. 

Kiss,  baby  !  kiss  !  mother's  lips  shine  by  kisses  : 
Choke  the  warm  breath  that  else  would  fall  in  blessings  ! 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  turbulent  guilty  blisses 
Tend  thee  the  kiss  that  poisons  'mid  caressings. 

Hang,  baby  !  hang  !  mother's  love  loves  such  forces  : 
Strain  the  fond  neck  that  bends  still  to  thy  clinging ! 
Black  manhood  comes,  when  violent  lawless  courses 
Leave  thee  a  spectacle  in  rude  air  swinging." 

So  sang  a  wither'd  beldam  energetical ; 

And  bann'd  the  ungiving  door  with  lips  prophetical. 


40  WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

1775— 1864. 


TO  HESPERUS. 


Hesperus  !  hail !  thy  winking  light 

Best  befriends  the  lover, 
Whom  the  sadder  Moon  for  spite 

Gladly  would  discover. 

Thou  art  fairer  far  than  she, 

Fairer  far,  and  chaster  : 
She  may  guess  who  smiled  on  me, 

I  know  who  embraced  her. 

Pan  of  Arcady, — 'twas  Pan, 

In  the  tamarisk-bushes  : 
Bid  her  tell  thee,  if  she  can, 

Where  were  then  her  blushes  ! 

And,  were  I  inclined  to  tattle, 

I  could  name  a  second 
Whom,  asleep  with  sleeping  cattle, 

To  her  cave  she  beckon'd. 

Hesperus  !  hail  !  thy  friendly  ray 

Watches  o'er  the  lover, 
Lest  the  nodding  beams  betray. 

Lest  the  Moon  discover. 

Phryne  heard  my  kisses  given 

Acte's  rival  bosom  : 
'Twas  the  buds  (I  swore  by  heaven) 

Bursting  into  blossom. 

What  she  heard,  and  half  espied 
By  the  gleam,  she  doubted  ; 

And  with  arms  uplifted  cried — 
*'  How  they  must  have  sprouted  !  " 


WALTER   SAVAGE  LANDOR.  4l 

Hesperus  !  hail  again  !  thy  light 

Best  befriends  the  lover, 
Whom  the  sadder  Moon  for  spite 

Gladly  would  discover. 


R  UBIES. 

Often  have  I  heard  it  said 
That  her  lips  are  ruby-red  : 
Little  heed  I  what  they  say, — 
I  have  seen  as  red  as  they. 
Ere  she  smiled  on  other  men, 
Real  rubies  were  they  then. 

When  she  kiss'd  me  once  in  play, 
Rubies  were  less  bright  than  they ; 
And  less  bright  were  those  which  shone 
In  the  palace  of  the  Sun. 
Will  they  be  as  bright  agen  ? 
Not  if  kiss'd  by  other  men. 


THE  NEREID. 

Beloved  the  last !  beloved  the  most ! 

With  willing  arms  and  brow  benign 
Receive  a  bosom  tempest-toss'd, 

And  bid  it  ever  beat  to  thine  ! 

The  Nereid  Maids,  in  days  of  yore. 
Saw  the  lost  pilot  loose  the  helm. 

Saw  the  wreck  blacken  all  the  shore. 
And  every  wave  some  head  o'ervvhelm. 

Afar,  the  youngest  of  the  train 
Beheld  (but  fear'd  and  aided  not) 

A  minstrel  from  the  billowy  main 
Borne  breathless  near  her  coral  grot. 


42  WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

Then  terror  fled,  and  pity  rose  : 

"  Ah  me  ! "  she  cried,  "  I  come  too  late ! 

Rather  than  not  have  soothed  his  woes 
I  would,  but  may  not,  share  his  fate." 

She  raised  his  hand  :  ''  What  hand  like  this 
Could  reach  the  heart,  athwart  the  lyre  ! 

What  lips  like  these  return  my  kiss, 
Or  breathe,  incessant,  soft  desire  !  " 

From  eve  to  morn,  from  morn  to  eve. 
She  gazed  his  features  o'er  and  o'er  : 

And  those  who  love  and  who  believe 
May  hear  her  sigh  along  the  shore. 


THE  MAID 'S  LAMENT. 

I  loved  him  not  ;   and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet  could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  ;  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
W^ho  lately  lived  for  me  and,  when  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death. 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  ;  but  mine  returns 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep. 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :   for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
'  Merciful  God  ! " — such  was  his  latest  prayer  : 

"  These  may  she  never  share  !" 


WALTER   SAVAGE   LANDOR.  43 

Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell  athwart  the  churchyard-gate 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls  !  whoe'er  you  be  ; 

And  O,  pray  too  for  me  ! 

MARGARET. 

Mother  !  I  cannot  mind  my  wheel  ; 
My  fingers  ache,  my  lips  are  dry. 

O,  if  you  felt  that  pain  I  feel 

But  O,  who  ever  felt  as  I  ? 
No  longer  could  I  doubt  him  true  : 
All  other  men  may  use  deceit, — 
He  always  said  my  eyes  were  blue, 
And  often  swore  my  lips  were  sweet. 

TO   YOUTH. 

Where  art  thou  gone  ?  light-ankled  Youth ! 

With  wing  at  either  shoulder, 
And  smile  that  never  left  thy  mouth 

Until  the  hours  grew  colder. 

Then  somewhat  seem'd  to  whisper  near 

That  thou  and  I  must  part  : 
I  doubted  it, — I  felt  no  fear, 

No  weight  upon  the  heart. 

If  aught  befell  it.  Love  was  by 

And  roll'd  it  off  again  : 
So,  if  there  ever  was  a  sigh, 

'Twas  not  a  sigh  of  pain. 

I  may  not  call  thee  back  ;  but  thou 

Returnest  when  the  hand 
Of  gentle  Sleep  waves  o'er  my  brow 

His  poppy-crested  wand. 


44  THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 

Then  smiling  eyes  bend  over  mine  ; 

Then  lips,  once  press'd,  invite  : 
But  Sleep  hath  given  a  silent  sign. 

And  both,  alas  !  take  flight. 

ERINNA   TO  LOVE. 

Who  breathes  to  thee  the  holiest  prayer, 
O  Love !  is  ever  least  thy  care. 
Alas  !  I  may  not  ask  thee  why  'tis  so  : 
Because  a  fiery  scroll  I  see 
Hung  at  the  throne  of  Destiny, — 
"  Reason  with  Love  and  register  with  Woe  ! " 

Few  question  thee,  for  thou  art  strong, 
And,  laughing  loud  at  Right  and  Wrong, 

Seizest  and  dashest  down  the  rich,  the  poor  ; 
Thy  sceptre's  iron  studs  alike 
The  meaner  and  the  prouder  strike. 

And  wise  and  simple  fear  thee  and  adore. 

THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 
1777— 1844. 


THE  BATTLE    OF   THE  BALTIC. 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown  ! 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  Crown, 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a  bold  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine 


THOMAS   CAMPBELL.  45 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line  : 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime. 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 
To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between  : 
**  Hearts  of  oak  !  "  our  captains  cried  :  when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack 

Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  ; — 

Then  ceased  ; — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail, 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  Victor  then, 
As  he  haird  them  o'er  the  wave  : 
"  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save, — 
So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring  ! 
But  yield,  proud  foe  !  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet. 
And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  king  !  " 


46  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

Then  Denmark  bless'd  our  chief, 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  : 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 
As  Death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day  ; 
While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  Old  England  !  raise 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ! 
And  yet,  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride, 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true. 

On  the  deck  of  Fame  that  died 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  : 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave  ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls. 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  Glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  Brave ! 


THE  MARINERS    OF  ENGLAND. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas, — 

Whose  flag  has  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze, — 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL.  47 

To  match  another  foe  ; 
And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, — 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ! 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave  : 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  grave. 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 

As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, — 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks. 

No  towers  along  the  steep  : 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  wave, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, — 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn 

Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  Ocean-Warriors  ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow, — 

When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 


48  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

HALLOWED    GROUND. 

What's  hallow'd  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  mean'd  not  should  be  trod 
By  Man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That's  hallow'd  ground  where,  mourn'd  and  miss'd. 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kiss'd  : 

But  where's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

A  kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound  : 
The  spot  where  love's  first  links  were  wound, 

That  ne'er  are  riven, 
Is  hallow'd  down  to  earth's  profound 

And  up  to  heaven. 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old  : 
The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory's  mould. 

And  will  not  cool. 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 

In  Lethe's  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  : 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom, 
Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind  ! 


THOMAS    CAMPBELL.  49 

And  is  he  dead,  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ; 
And  Murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause. 

Give  that,  and  welcome  War  to  brace 

Her  drums  and  rend  heaven's  reeking  space  ! 

The  colours  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 
Though  Death's  Pale  Horse  lead  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 

To  Heaven  ! but  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal  : 

The  cause  of  Truth  and  human  weal, 

O  God  above  ! 
Transfer  it  from  the  sword's  appeal 

To  Peace  and  Love  ! 

Peace  !  Love  !  the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o'er  Devotion's  shrine  : 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine. 

Where  they  are  not  ; 
The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 

Religion's  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust. 
And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 
See  mouldering  stones  and  metal's  rust 
Belie  the  vaunt 
II.-4 


50  THOMAS   CAMPBELL. 

That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 
With  chime  or  chant  ! 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  Man  ! 

Thy  temples creeds  themselves  grow  wan  : 

But  there's  a  dome  of  nobler  span, 

A  temple  given 
Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban, — 

Its  space  is  heaven  : 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature's  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit's  feeling 
And  God  himself  to  Man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Make  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 

By  mortal  ears. 

Fair  Stars  !  are  not  your  beings  pure  ? 
Can  sin,  can  death  your  worlds  obscure  ? 
Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 

Aspect  above  ? 
Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 

Of  heavenly  love. 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 
I  read  the  doom  of  distant  time  : 
That  Man's  regenerate  soul  from  crime 

Shall  yet  be  drawn. 
And  Reason  on  his  mortal  clime, 

Immortal  dawn. 

What's  hallow'd  ground  ?     'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  : 
Peace  !   Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round  ! 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallow'd  ground. 


THOMAS   MOORE.  51 

THOMAS  MOORE. 
1779—1852. 


THEN  FARE  THEE  WELL! 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  own  dear  Love  ! 

This  world  has  now  for  us 
No  greater  grief,  no  pain  above 

The  pain  of  parting  thus, 
Dear  Love ! 

The  pain  of  parting  thus. 

Had  we  but  known,  since  first  we  met, 
Some  few  short  hours  of  bliss. 

We  might  in  numbering  them  forget 
The  deep  deep  pain  of  this. 

Dear  Love  ! 
The  deep  deep  pain  of  this. 

But  no,  alas  !  we've  never  seen 
One  glimpse  of  pleasure's  ray 

But  still  there  came  a  cloud  between 
And  chased  it  all  away. 

Dear  Love  ! 
And  chased  it  all  away. 

Yet  even  could  those  sad  moments  last, 

Far  dearer  to  my  heart 
Were  hours  of  grief  together  pass'd 

Than  years  of  mirth  apart. 
Dear  Love  ! 

Than  years  of  mirth  apart. 

Farewell !  our  hope  was  born  in  fears 
And  nursed  'mid  vain  regrets  : 

Like  winter  suns,  it  rose  in  tears, 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets, 

Dear  Love ! 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets. 


52  THOMAS   MOORE. 


PEACE  BE  AROUND  THEE! 

Peace  be  around  thee  wherever  thou  rovest ! 

May  life  be  for  thee  one  summer's  day, 
And  all  that  thou  wishest,  and  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Come  smiling  around  thy  sunny  way  ! 
If  sorrow  e'er  this  calm  should  break, 

May  even  thy  tears  pass  off  so  lightly, 
Like  Spring  showers  they'll  only  make 

The  smiles  that  follow  shine  more  brightly  J 

May  Time,  who  sheds  his  blight  o'er  all, 

And  daily  dooms  some  joy  to  death, 
On  thee  let  years  so  gently  fall 

They  shall  not  crush  one  flower  beneath  ! 
As  half  in  shade  and  half  in  sun 

This  world  along  its  path  advances. 
May  that  side  the  sun's  upon 

Be  all  that  e'er  shall  meet  thy  glances  ! 


BRING  THE  BRIGHT  GARLANDS! 

Bring  the  bright  garlands  hither. 

Ere  yet  a  leaf  is  dying  ! 
If  so  soon  they  must  wither. 

Ours  be  their  last  sweet  sighing  ! 
Hark  !  that  low  dismal  chime  : 
'Tis  the  dreary  voice  of  Time. 
O,  bring  beauty,  bring  roses, 

Bring  all  that  yet  is  ours  ! 
Let  life's  day  as  it  closes 

Shine  to  the  last  through  flowers  ! 

Haste  ere  the  bowl's  declining  ! 

Drink  of  it  now,  or  never  ! 
Now,  while  Beauty  is  shining, 

Love  !  or  she's  lost  for  ever. 


THOMAS   MOORE.  53 

Hark  !  again  that  dull  chime  : 
'Tis  the  dreary  voice  of  Time. 
O,  if  life  be  a  torrent 

Down  to  oblivion  going, 
Like  this  cup  be  its  current, 

Bright  to  the  last  drop  flowing ! 


BRITTLE  SONG. 

O  the  sight  entrancing 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  tiles  array'd, 

With  helm  and  blade. 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing  ! 
When  hearts  are  all  high  beating, 
And  the  trumpet's  voice  repeating 

That  song  whose  breath 

May  lead  to  death 
But  never  to  retreating. 
Then  should  some  cloud  pass  over 
The  brow  of  sire  or  lover, 

Think  'tis  the  shade 

By  Victory  made, 
Whose  wings  right  o'er  us  hover  ! 
O  the  sight  entrancing. 
When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 

O'er  files  array'd, 

With  helm  and  blade, 
And  plumes  in  the  gay  wind  dancing. 

Yet  'tis  not  helm  or  feather : 

For  ask  yon  despot  whether 
His  plumed  bands 
Could  bring  such  hands 

And  hearts  as  ours  together  ! 

Leave  pomps  to  those  who  need  'em  ! 


54 


THOMAS   MOORE. 


Give  man  but  heart  and  freedom, 
And  proud  he  braves 
The  gaudiest  slaves 

That  crawl  where  monarchs  lead  'em. 

The  sword  may  pierce  the  beaver, 

Stone  walls  in  time  may  sever ; 
'Tis  mind  alone, 
Worth  steel  and  stone, 

That  keeps  men  free  for  ever. 

O  that  sight  entrancing, 

When  morning's  beam  is  glancing 
O'er  files  array'd, 
With  helm  and  blade, 

And  in  Freedom's  cause  advancing  ! 


AFTER  DEFEAT. 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way, 

And  lightnings  show'd  the  distant  hill 
Where  those  who  lost  that  dreadful  day 

Stood,  few  and  faint,  but  fearless  still : 
The  soldier's  hope,  the  patriot's  zeal. 

For  ever  dimm'd,  for  ever  cross'd, — 
O  !  who  shall  say  what  heroes  feel 

When  all  but  life  and  honour's  lost  ? 

The  last  sad  hours  of  Freedom's  dream 

And  Valour's  task  moved  slowly  by, 
While  mute  they  watch'd,  till  morning's  beam 

Should  rise  and  give  them  light  to  die. 
There's  yet  a  world  where  souls  are  free, 

Where  Tyrants  taint  not  Nature's  bliss : 
If  death  that  world's  bright  opening  be, 

O  !  who  would  live  a  slave  in  this  ? 


HORACE   SMITH.  55 

HORACE  SMITH. 
1779—1849. 


HYMN  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 
Day  Stars  !  that  ope  your  frovvnless  eyes  to  twinkle 
From  rainbow  galaxies  of  Earth's  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a  libation  : 

Ye  Matin  Worshipers  !  who,  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  Sun,  God's  lidless  eye, 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a  sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high  : 

Ye  bright  Mosaics  !  that  with  storied  beauty 
The  floor  of  Nature's  temple  tesselate  : 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create  ! 

'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer  : 

Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand. 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  plann'd, — 

To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply, 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ  thunder, 
Its  dome  the  sky. 

There,  as  in  solitude  and  shade  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles  or  stretch'd  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God, 


56  HORACE   SMITH. 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O  Flowers  !  arc  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit  and  each  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  Apostles  !   that  in  dewy  splendour 
"  Weep  without  woe  and  blush  without  a  crime  :  " 
O  may  I  deeply  learn,  and  ne'er  surrender 
Your  lore  sublime  ! 

"Thou  wast  not,  Solomon!  in  all  thy  glory 
Array'd,"  the  lilies  cry,  "  in  robes  like  ours: 
How  vain  your  grandeur !  ah,  how  transitory 
Arc  human  flowers  !  " 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures.  Heavenly  Artist  ! 
With  which  thou  paintest  Nature's  wide-spread  hall, 
What  a  delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all ! 

Not  useless  are  ye,  Flowers!  though  made  for  pleasure  ; 
Blooming  o'er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and  night. 
From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me  treasure 
Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  Sages  !  what  instructors  hoary 
For  such  a  world  of  thought  could  furnish  scope  ? 
Each  fading  calyx  a  memento  mori, 
Yet  fount  of  hope  ! 

Posthumous  Glories  !  angel-like  collection, 
Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interr'd  in  earth  : 
Ye  are  to  me  a  type  of  resurrection 
And  second  birth. 

Were  I  in  church-less  solitudes  remaining. 
Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines, 
My  soul  would  find  in  flowers,  of  God's  ordaining, 
Priests,  sermons,  shrines. 


EBENEZER   ELLIOTT.  57 


EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 
1781 — 1849. 


FLOWERS  FOR  THE  HEART. 

Flowers  !  winter  flowers  !     The  child  is  dead, 

The  mother  can  not  speak. 
O,  softly  couch  his  little  head ! 

Or  Mary's  heart  will  break. 
Amid  those  curls  of  flaxen  hair 

This  pale  pink  ribbon  twine  ; 
And  on  the  little  bosom  there 

Place  this  wan  lock  of  mine  ! 
How  like  a  form  in  cold  white  stone 

The  coffin'd  infant  lies  ! 
Look,  Mother  !    on  thy  little  one  : 

And  tears  will  fill  thine  eyes. 
She  can  not  weep  ;  more  faint  she  grows. 

More  deadly  pale  and  still  : — 
Flowers  !  O,  a  flower!  a  winter  rose. 

That  tiny  hand  to  fill. 
Go,  search  the  fields  !  the  lichen  wet 

Bends  o'er  the  unfailing  well ; 
Beneath  the  furrow  lingers  yet 

The  scarlet  pimpernel. 
Peeps  not  a  snowdrop  in  the  bower 

Where  never  froze  the  spring  ? 
A  daisy?     Ah,  bring  childhood's  flower! 

The  half-blown  daisy  bring  ! 
Yes  !  lay  the  daisy's  little  head 

Beside  the  little  cheek  ; 
O  haste !     The  last  of  five  is  dead  : 

The  childless  can  not  speak. 


58  EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 


THE  BRAMBLE-FLOWER. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose  ! 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers  : 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull, 

That  can  not  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty  beautiful. 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ; 
How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill. 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem. 
How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still 

And  thou  sing'st  hvTnns  to  them. 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow 

And,  'mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough. 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead ; 
The  violet  by  the  moss'd  grey  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head  : 
But  thou,  wild  bramble  !  back  dost  bring. 

In  all  their  beauteous  power. 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  Spring 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 
Scom'd  bramble  of  the  brake  !  once  more 

Thou  bidd'st  me  be  a  boy, 
To  gad  with  thee,  the  woodlands  o'er. 

In  freedom  and  Ln  joy. 


EBEXEZER   ELLIOTT.  59 

ELEGY  ON  WILLIAM  COBBETT. 

O  bear  him  where  the  rain  can  fall, 

And  where  the  winds  can  blow ; 
And  let  the  sun  weep  o'er  his  pall 

As  to  the  grave  ye  go  ! 

And  in  some  little  lone  churchyard, 

Beside  the  growing  com, 
Lay  gentle  Nature's  stem  prose  bard, 

Her  mightiest  peasant-bom  ! 

Yes  !  let  the  wild-flower  wed  his  grave. 

That  bees  may  murmur  near, 
When  o'er  his  last  home  bend  the  brave. 

And  say — "  A  man  lies  here  !  " 

For  Britons  honour  Cobbett's  name, 

Though  rashly  oft  he  spoke  ; 
And  none  can  scorn,  and  few  will  blame. 

The  low-laid  heart  of  oak. 

See,  o'er  his  prostrate  branches,  see  ! 

E'en  factious  hate  consents 
To  reverence,  in  the  fallen  tree, 

His  British  lineaments. 

Though  gnarl'd  the  storm-tost  boughs  that  braved 

The  thunder's  gather'd  scowl. 
Not  always  through  his  darkness  raved 

The  storm-winds  of  the  soul. 

O,  no  !  in  hours  of  golden  calm 

Mom  met  his  forehead  bold ; 
And  breezy  evening  sang  her  psalm 

Beneath  his  dew-dropp'd  gold. 

The  wren  its  crest  of  fibred  fire 
With  his  rich  bronze  compared ; 


6o  EBENEZER   ELLIOTT. 

While  many  a  youngling's  songful  sire 
His  acorn'd  twiglets  shared. 

The  lark,  above,  sweet  tribute  paid, 
Where  clouds  with  light  were  riven ; 

And  true  love  sought  his  blue-bell'd  shade, 
"  To  bless  the  hour  of  heaven." 

E'en  when  his  stormy  voice  was  loud, 

And  guilt  quaked  at  the  sound. 
Beneath  the  frown  that  shook  the  proud 

The  poor  a  shelter  found. 

Dead  Oak  !  thou  livest.     Thy  smitten  hands, 

The  thunder  of  thy  brow, 
Speak,  with  strange  tongues,  in  many  lands, 

And  tyrants  hear  thee,  now  ! 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  name, 

Inspired  by  thy  renown, 
Shall  future  patriots  rise  to  fame, 

And  many  a  sun  go  down. 

HANNAH  RATCLIFFE. 

If  e'er  she  knew  an  evil  thought, 

She  spoke  no  evil  word  : 
Peace  to  the  gentle  !     She  hath  sought 

The  bosom  of  her  Lord. 

She  lived  to  love,  and  loved  to  bless 

Whatever  He  hath  made  ; 
But  early  on  her  gentleness 

His  chastening  hand  he  laid. 

Like  a  maim'd  linnet  nursed  with  care, 

She  graced  a  home  of  bliss  ; 
And  dwelt  in  thankful  quiet  there, 

To  show  what  croodness  is. 


JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH   HUNT.  6l 

Her  presence  was  a  noiseless  power, 

That  soothed  us  day  by  day, — 
A  modest,  meek,  secluded  flower, 

That  smiled,  and  pass'd  away. 

So  meek  she  was  that,  when  she  died, 

We  miss'd  the  lonely  one 
As  when  we  feel,  on  Loxley's  side. 

The  silent  sunshine  gone. 

But  memory  brings  to  sunless  bowers 

The  light  they  knew  before  : 
And  Hannah's  quiet  smile  is  ours, 

Though  Hannah  is  no  more. 

Her  pale  face  visits  yet  my  heart, 

And  oft  my  guest  will  be  : 
O  White  Rose  !  thou  shalt  not  depart, 

But  wither  here  with  me. 

JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH  HUNT. 
1784— 1859. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  Angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold. 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold ; 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said — 

"  What  writest  thou  ?  "     The  Vision  raised  its  head  ; 
And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answer'd — "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord. 

"  And  is  mine  one  ?  "  said  Abou.     "  Nay  !  not  so  !  " 
Replied  the  Angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low. 
But  cheerly  still,  and  said — "  I  pray  thee  then, 
Write  me  as  One  that  loves  his  fellow  men  ! " 


62  JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH   HUNT. 

The  Angel  wrote,  and  vanish'd.     The  next  night 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  hght. 

And  show'd  their  names  whom  love  of  God  had  bless'd  : 

And  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 


SONG    OF  PEACE. 

O  Thou  that  art  our  Queen  again, 
And  may  in  the  sun  be  seen  again, 

Come,  Ceres  !  come  ! 

For  the  war's  gone  home, 
And  the  fields  are  quiet  and  green  again. 

The  air,  dear  Goddess  !  sighs  for  thee  ; 
The  light-heart  brooks  arise  for  thee ; 

And  the  poppies  red 

On  their  wistful  bed 
Turn  up  their  dark  blue  eyes  for  thee. 

Laugh  out,  in  the  loose  green  jerkin 
That's  fit  for  a  Goddess  to  work  in ! 

With  shoulders  brown, 

And  the  wheaten  crown 
About  thy  temples  perking. 

And  with  thee  come  Stout-Heart  in ; 
And  Toil,  that  sleeps  his  cart  in  ; 

And  Exercise, 

The  ruddy  and  wise, 
His  bathed  forelocks  parting  ! 

And  Dancing  too,  that's  lither 
Than  willow  or  birch,  drop  hither  ! 

To  thread  the  place 

With  a  finishing  grace 
And  carry  our  smooth  eyes  with  her. 


JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH   HUNT.  6^ 

A   NUN. 

If  you  become  a  Nun,  Dear! 

A  Friar  I  will  be  : 
In  any  cell  you  run,  Dear! 

Pray  look  behind  for  me  ! 
The  roses  all  turn  pale  too  ; 
The  doves  all  take  the  veil  too  ; 

The  blind  will  see  the  show  : 
What!  you  become  a  Nun?  my  Dear! 

I'll  not  believe  it.     No  ! 

If  you  become  a  Nun,  Dear! 

The  bishop  Love  will  be  ; 
The  Cupids,  every  one.  Dear  ! 

Will  chant—"  We  trust  in  thee  !  " 
The  incense  will  go  sighing  ; 
The  candles  fall  a-dying  ; 

The  water  turn  to  wine  : 
What !     You  go  take  the  vows  ?  my  Dear  ! 

You  may, — but  they'll  be  mine. 

GRASSHOPPER  AND    CRICKET. 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June, — 

Sole  voice  that's  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon. 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning  brass  ! 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper  !  who  class 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too  soon, 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome  tune 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass  : 

O  sweet  and  tiny  cousins  !  that  belong. 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth  : 

Both  have  your  sunshine  ;  both,  though  small,  are  strong 

At  your  clear  hearts  ;  and  both  were  sent  on  earth 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song, 

In-doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  Mirth. 


64  JAMES   HENRY   LEIGH  HUNT. 

TO   HIS    WIFE, 

While  she  ivas  jnodelin^  the  Poefs  bust. 

Ah,  Marian  mine  !  the  face  you  look  on  now 
Is  not  exactly  like  my  wedding-day's  : 
Sunk  is  its  cheek,  deeper-retired  its  gaze, 
Less  white  and  smootli  its  temple-flatten'd  brow. 
Sorrow  has  been  there  with  his  silent  plough 
And  strait  stern  hand.     No  matter  !  if  it  raise 
Aught  that  affection  fancies  it  may  praise, 
Or  make  me  worthier  of  Apollo's  bough. 
Loss  after  all,  such  loss  especially, 
Is  transfer,  change,  but  not  extinction.     No  ! 
Part  in  our  children's  apple-cheeks  I  see ; 
And  for  the  rest, — while  you  look  at  me  so, 
Take  care  you  do  not  smile  it  back  to  me, 
And  miss  the  copied  furrows  as  you  go ! 

TO   HIS  PIANO-FORTE. 

0  Friend !  whom  glad  or  grave  we  seek, 

Heaven-holding  shrine ! 

1  ope  thee,  touch  thee,  hear  thee  speak, 

And  peace  is  mine. 
No  fairy  casket  full  of  bliss 

Outvalues  thee  : 
Love  only,  waken'd  with  a  kiss. 

More  sweet  may  be. 

To  thee,  when  our  full  hearts  o'erflow 

In  griefs  or  joys. 
Unspeakable  emotions  owe 

A  fitting  voice  : 
Mirth  flies  to  thee,  and  Love's  unrest. 

And  Memory  dear  ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  his  tighten'd  breast, 

Comes  for  a  tear. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM.  6$ 

O,  since  few  joys  of  human  mould 

Thus  wait  us  still, 
Thrice  bless'd  be  thine,  thou  gentle  fold 

Of  peace  at  will ! 
No  change,  no  sullenness,  no  cheat, 

In  thee  we  find  : 
Thy  saddest  voice  is  ever  sweet, 

Thine  answer  kind. 


ALLAN   CUNNINGHAM. 
1784 — 1842. 


THE  SUN  IN  FRANCE. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he  : 
But  he  has  tint  the  blithe  blink  he  had 

In  my  ain  countree. 

O,  it's  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  ee, 
But  the  dear  Marie  I  left  behin' 

Wi'  sweet  bairnies  three. 

My  lanely  hearth  burn'd  bonnie, 
And  smiled  my  ain  Marie  : 

I've  left  a'  my  heart  behin' 
In  my  ain  countree. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer. 
And  the  blossom  to  the  bee  ; 

But  I'll  win  back O,  never ! 

To  my  ain  countree. 

O  I  am  leal  to  high  Heaven, 

Where  soon  I  hope  to  be  : 
And  there  I'll  meet  ye  a' 

Frae  my  ain  countree. 
n— 5 


66  GEORGE  DARLEY 

GEORGE   DARLEY. 
1785—1849. 


WAKING  SONG. 

Awake  thee,  my  Lady- Love  ! 

\v  ake  thee,  and  rise  ! 
The  sun  through  the  bower  peeps 

Into  thine  eyes. 

Behold  how  the  early  lark 

Springs  from  the  corn  ! 
Hark,  hark  how  the  flower-bird 

Winds  her  wee  horn  ! 

The  swallow's  glad  shriek  is  heard 

All  through  the  air  ; 
The  stock-dove  is  murmuring 

Loud  as  she  dare. 

Apollo's  wing'd  bugleman 

Can  not  contain, 
But  peals  his  loud  trumpet-call 

Once  and  again. 

Then  wake  thee,  my  Lady-Love  ! 

Bird  of  my  bower  ! 
The  sweetest  and  sleepiest 

Bird  at  this  hour. 


SYLVIA'S  SONG. 

The  streams  that  wind  amid  the  hills 

And  lost  in  pleasure  slowly  roam, 
"While  their  deep  joy  the  valley  fills, — 

Even  these  will  leave  their  mountain  home  ; 
So  may  it,  Love  !  with  others  be. 
But  I  will  never  wend  from  thee. 


GEORGE   DARLEY.  6/ 

The  leaf  forsakes  the  parent  spray, 

The  blossom  quits  the  stem  as  fast ; 
The  rose-enamour'd  bird  will  stray 
And  leave  his  eglantine  at  last : 

So  may  it,  Love  !  with  others  be. 
But  I  will  never  wend  from  thee. 


DIRGE. 

Wail !  wail  ye  o'er  the  Dead  ! 

Wail,  wail  ye  o'er  her  ! 
Youth's  ta'en  and  Beauty's  fled  : 

O  then  deplore  her  ! 

Strew !  strew,  ye  Maidens  !  strew 
Sweet  flowers  and  fairest  : 

Pale  rose,  and  pansy  blue, 
Lily  the  rarest ! 

Wail ! 

Lay,  lay  her  gently  down 

On  her  moss  pillow, 
While  we  our  foreheads  crown 

With  the  sad  willow  ! 

Wail  !^ ■ 

Raise,  raise  the  song  of  woe, 
Youths  !  to  her  honour  ; 

Fresh  leaves  and  blossoms  throw. 
Virgins  !  upon  her. 

Wail ! 

Round,  round  the  cypress  bier 
Where  she  lies  sleeping, 

On  every  turf  a  tear, 
Let  us  go,  weeping  ! 

Wail ! 


68  THOMAS   LOVE   PEACOCK. 

THOMAS  LOVE  PEACOCK. 

1785— 1866. 


CASTLES  IN  THE  AIR. 

My  thoughts  by  night  are  often  fiU'd 

With  visions  false  as  fair  : 
For  in  the  Past  alone  I  build 

My  castles  in  the  air. 

I  dwell  not  now  on  what  may  be ; 

Night  shadows  o'er  the  scene  : 
But  still  my  fancy  wanders  free 

Through  that  which  might  have  been. 

DAYS  OF  OLD. 

In  the  days  of  old 
Lovers  felt  true  passion, 
Deeming  years  of  sorrow 
By  a  smile  repaid  : 
Now  the  charms  of  gold, 
Spells  of  pride  and  fashion, 
Bid  them  say  Good-morrow 
To  the  best-loved  Maid. 

Through  the  forests  wild, 
O'er  the  mountains  lonely. 
They  were  never  weary 
Honour  to  pursue  : 
If  the  Damsel  smiled 
Once  in  seven  years  only, 
All  their  wanderings  dreary 
Ample  guerdon  knew. 

Now  one  day's  caprice 
Weighs  down  years  of  smiling, 
Youthful  hearts  are  rovers, 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER.  69 

Love  is  bought  and  sold. 
Fortune's  gifts  may  cease, 
Love  is  less  beguiling  : 
Wiser  were  the  lovers 
In  the  days  of  old. 

MARGARET  LOVE  PEACOCK. 

Three  years  old. 

Long  night  succeeds  thy  little  day  : 

O,  blighted  blossom  !  can  it  be 
That  this  grey  stone  and  grassy  clay 

Have  closed  our  anxious  care  of  thee  ? 

The  half-form'd  speech  of  artless  thought, 
That  spoke  a  mind  beyond  thy  years, 

The  song,  the  dance  by  Nature  taught. 
The  sunny  smiles,  the  transient  tears, 

The  symmetry  of  face  and  form. 

The  eye  with  light  and  life  replete. 

The  little  heart  so  fondly  warm, 

The  voice  so  musically  sweet, — 

These,  lost  to  hope,  in  memory  yet 

Around  the  hearts  that  loved  thee  cling. 

Shadowing  with  long  and  vain  regret 
The  too  fair  promise  of  thy  Spring. 

BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER. 

("  BARRY  CORNWALL.") 
1787— 1874. 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 
Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea, — 
From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast. 


70  BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER. 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast : 

The  sails  are  scatter'd  abroad  like  weeds  ; 

The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds ; 

The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains, 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, — 

They  strain  and  they  crack  :  and  hearts  like  stone 

Their  natural  hard  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down  !  up  and  down! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow's  crown  : 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam 

The  Stormy  Petrel  finds  a  home  : 

A  home,  if  such  a  place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air. 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 

To  warm  her  young  and  to  teach  them  spring 

At  once  o'er  the  waves  on  their  stormy  wing. 

O'er  the  deep  !  o'er  the  deep  ! 

Where  the  whale  and  the  shark  and  the  sword-fish  sleep, — 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 

The  Petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain  : 

For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 

Who  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storms  unheard. 

Ah,  thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 

Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still ! 

Yet  he  ne'er  falters.     So,  Petrel !  spring 

Once  more  o'er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy  wing ! 


TO  O  UR  NEIGHB  OUR'S  HEAL  Til. 

Send  the  red  wine  round  to-night ! 

For  the  blast  is  bitter  cold  : 
Let  us  sing  a  song  that's  light ! 

Merry  rhymes  are  good  as  gold. 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER.  /I 

Here's  unto  Our  Neighbour's  health ! 

0  he  plays  the  better  part, — 
Doing  good,  but  not  by  stealth  : 

Is  he  not  a  noble  heart  ? 

Should  you  bid  me  tell  his  name, 

Show  wherein  his  virtues  dwell : 
'Faith  (I  speak  it  to  my  shame), 

1  should  scarce  know  what  to  tell. 

"  Is  he — ?  "     Sir  !  he  is  a  thing 
Cast  in  common  human  clay, — 
'Tween  a  beggar  and  a  king, — 
Fit  to  order  or  obey. 

"  He  is  then  a  soldier  brave  ?  " 
No  !  he  doth  not  kill  his  kin, 
Pampering  the  luxurious  Grave 
With  the  blood  and  bones  of  Sin. 

*'  Or  a  judge  ?  "     He  doth  not  sit, 

Making  hucksters'  bargains  plain  ; 
Piercing  cobwebs  with  his  wit. 
Cutting  tangled  knots  in  twain. 

**  He's  an  Abbot  then  at  least  ?  " 
No  !  he  is  not  proud  and  blithe, 
Leaving  prayer  to  humble  priest, 
"Whilst  he  champs  the  golden  tithe. 

He  is  brave,  but  he  is  meek, — 

Not  as  judge  or  soldier  seems. 
Not  like  Abbot  proud  and  sleek : 

Yet  his  dreams  are  starry  dreams, — 

Such  as  lit  the  World  of  old 

Through  the  darkness  of  her  way  ; 


72 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER. 

Such  as  might,  if  clearly  told, 
Guide  blind  Future  into  day. 

Never  hath  he  sought  to  rise 

On  a  friend's  or  neighbour's  fall ; 
Never  slurr'd  a  foe  with  lies  ; 

Never  shrunk  from  Hunger's  call : 

But  from  morning  until  eve, 

And  through  Autumn  into  Spring, 
He  hath  kept  his  course  (believe  !), 

Courting  neither  slave  nor  king. 

He,  whatever  be  his  name 

(For  I  know  it  not  aright). 
He  deserves  a  wider  fame. 

Come  !  here's  to  his  health  to-night. 


BA  CCHANALIAN. 

Sing! — Who  sings 

To  her  who  weareth  a  hundred  rings  ? 

Ah,  who  is  this  lady  fine  ? 

The  Vine,  boys  !  the  Vine  ! 

The  mother  of  mighty  Wine. 

A  roamer  is  she 

O'er  wall  and  tree. 

And  sometimes  very  good  company. 

Drink  ! — Who  drinks 
To  her  who  blushcth  and  never  thinks  ? 
Ah,  who  is  this  maid  of  thine  ? 
The  Grape,  boys  !  the  Grape  ! 
O  never  let  her  escape 
Until  she  be  turn'd  to  Wine  ! 
For  better  is  she 
Than  Vine  can  be, 
And  very  very  good  company. 


BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER.  ^^ 

Dream  ! — Who  dreams 

Of  the  God  who  governs  a  thousand  streams  ? 
Ah,  who  is  this  Spirit  fine  ? 
'Tis  Wine,  boys  !  'tis  W^ine  ! 
God  Bacchus,  a  friend  of  mine. 
O,  better  is  he 
Than  Grape  or  Tree, 
And  the  best  of  all  good  company. 


SONG. 

Let  us  sing  and  sigh  ! 

Let  us  sigh  and  sing  ! 
Sunny  haunts  have  no  such  pleasures 

As  the  shadows  bring. 

Who  would  seek  the  crowd, 
Who  would  seek  the  noon, 

That  could  woo  the  pale  maid  Silence 
Underneath  the  moon  ? 

Smiles  are  things  for  youth, 
Things  for  a  merry  rhyme  : 

But  the  voice  of  Pity  suiteth 
Any  mood  or  time. 

I  LOVE  HIM. 

I  love  him,  I  dream  of  him, 

I  sing  of  him  by  day. 
And  all  the  night  I  hear  him  talk, — 

And  yet,  he's  far  away. 

There's  beauty  in  the  morning  ; 

There's  sweetness  in  the  May  ; 
There's  music  in  the  running  stream  : 

And  yet,  he's  far  away. 


74  BRYAN   WALLER   PROCTER. 

I  love  him,  I  trust  in  him  ; 

He  trusteth  me  alway  : 
And  so  the  time  flies  hopefully, 

Although  he's  far  away. 

IGNORANCE  IS  BLISS. 

Rains  fall,  suns  shine,  winds  flee, 
Brooks  run  ;  yet  few  know  how  : 

Do  not  thou  too  deeply  search 
Why  thou  lovest  me  now  ! 

Perhaps,  by  some  command 

Sent  earthward  from  above. 
Thy  heart  was  doom'd  to  lean  on  mine. 

Mine  to  enjoy  thy  love. 

Why  ask  when  joy  doth  smile, 
From  what  bright  heaven  it  fell  ? 

Men  mar  the  beauty  of  their  dreams, 
Tracing  their  source  too  well. 


SHE  WAS  NOT  FAIR. 

She  was  not  fair,  nor  full  of  grace, 

Nor  crown'd  with  thought  or  aught  beside, 
No  wealth  had  she  of  mind  or  face. 

To  win  our  love  or  raise  our  pride  ; 
No  lover's  thought  her  cheek  did  touch, 

No  poet's  dream  was  round  her  thrown  : 
And  yet  we  miss  her, — ah  !  too  much, 

Now  she  hath  flown. 

We  miss  her  when  the  morning  calls, 
As  one  that  mingled  in  our  mirth  ; 

We  miss  her  when  the  evening  falls, — 
A  trifle  wanted  on  the  earth  : 


BRYAN    WALLER   PROCTER.  75 

Some  fancy  small  or  subtle  thought 
Is  check'd  ere  to  its  blossom  grown, 

Some  chain  is  broken  that  we  wrought, — 
Now  she  hath  flown. 

No  solid  good  nor  hope  defined 

Is  marr'd  now  she  hath  sunk  in  night ; 
And  yet  the  strong  immortal  Mind 

Is  stopp'd  in  its  triumphant  flight. 
Stern  friend !  what  power  is  in  a  tear, 

What  strength  in  one  poor  thought  alone, 
When  all  we  know  is — She  was  here 

And  She  hath  flown  ! 


THE  POET  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

How  many  summers,  Love  ! 

Have  I  been  thine  ? 
How  many  days,  thou  Dove ! 

Hast  thou  been  mine  ? 
Time,  like  the  winged  wind 

When  it  bends  the  flowers, 
Hath  left  no  mark  behind 

To  count  the  hours. 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loath, 

On  thee  he  leaves  ; 
Some  lines  of  care  round  both 

Perhaps  he  weaves  ; 
Some  fears,  a  soft  regret 

For  joys  scarce  known ; 
Sweet  looks  we  half  forget : 

All  else  is  flown. 

Ah  !  with  what  thankless  heart 

I  mourn  and  sing  ! 
Look,  where  our  children  start 

Like  sudden  Spring ! 


'j6  RICHARD   HENRY   DANA. 

With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a  pleasant  rhyme, 
They  tell  how  much  1  owe 

To  Thee  and  Thine. 


RICHARD  HENRY  DANA. 

1787— 1879. 


THE  LITTLE  BEACHBIRD. 

Thou  little  bird  !  thou  dweller  by  the  sea ! 
Why  tak^st  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 

And  with  that  boding  cry 

O'er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 
O  rather,  bird  !  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice  ! 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale. 
As  driven  by  the  beating  storm  at  sea ; 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 

As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us  ;  thy  wail — 
What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 

Thou  call'st  along  the  sand  and  haunt'st  the  surge, 
Restless  and  sad,  as  if,  in  strange  accord 

With  the  inotion  and  the  roar 

Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 
One  spirit  did  ye  urge, — 
The  Mystery — the  Word. 

Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall. 
Old  Ocean  !  art.     A  requiem  o'er  the  dead 

From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 

A  tale  of  mourning  tells  : 
Tells  of  man's  woe  and  fall, 
His  sinless  elorv  fled. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON.  'J'J 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird  !  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness  bring 

Thy  spirit  never  more  ! 

Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore 
For  gladness  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing  ! 

GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON  (LORD  BYRON). 

1788— 1824. 


THE  ISLES  OF  GREECE. 

The  Isles  of  Greece  !  the  Isles  of  Greece  ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, — 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung  ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet : 
But  all  except  their  sun  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse. 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute. 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse  ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  West 

Than  your  sires'  "  Islands  of  the  Bless'd." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone 

I  dream'd  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  : 

For  standing  on  the  Persians'  grave 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

A  King  sate  on  the  rocky  brow 

Which  looks  o'er  sea-born  Salamis, 

And  ships  by  thousands  lay  below. 
And  men  in  nations, — all  were  his  ; 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day  ; 

But  when  the  sun  set  where  were  they  ? 


Jfg  GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON. 

And  where  are  they  ?     And  where  art  thou  ? 

My  Country  !     On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now, 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more. 
And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 

Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 

♦ 

'Tis  something  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  link'd  among  a  fetter'd  race, 

To  feel  at  least  a  patriot's  shame, 
Even  as  I  sing,  suffuse  my  face  : 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a  blush — for  Greece  a  tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  bless'd  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?     Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead  ! 
Of  the  Three  Hundred  grant  but  three, 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylce  ! 

What !  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  voices  of  the  Dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer — "  Let  one  living  head. 
But  one  arise, — we  come,  we  come  !  " 
'Tis  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  !  in  vain  ! — Strike  other  chords ! 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine  ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet  : 

Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 
Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON.  79 

The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 
You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave  : 
Think  ye  he  mean'd  them  for  a  slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these. 
It  made  Anacreon's  song  divine  ; 

He  served but  served  Polycrates  : 

A  tyrant, — but  our  masters  then 
Were  still  at  least  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  Freedom's  best  and  bravest  friend : 

That  tyrant  was  Miltiades  : 

O  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 

Another  despot  of  the  kind  ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli's  rock,  and  Parga's  shore, 
Exists  the  remnant  of  a  line 

Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore  ; 
And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks  ! 

They  have  a  king  who  buys  and  sells  : 
In  native  swords  and  native  ranks 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells  ; 
But  Turkish  force  and  Latin  fraud 
Would  break  your  shield  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade  : 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine  ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 


80  GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing  save  the  waves  and  I 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep  ! 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die  ! 

A  Land  of  Slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine  : 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine  ! 

TO  THYRZA. 

And  thou  art  dead  !  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  : 
And  form  so  soft,  and  charms  so  rare. 

Too  soon  return'd  to  Earth. 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  of  mirth. 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low. 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot  : 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow. 

So  I  behold  them  not. 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot. 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  1  love  thee  to  the  last. 

As  fervently  as  thou 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past, 

And  canst  not  alter  now. 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal. 

Nor  falsehood  disavow ; 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong  or  change  or  fault  in  me. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON. 


The  better  days  of  life  were  ours, 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine  ; 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours, 

Shall  never  more  be  thine  : 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay. 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away  : 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  plucked  to-day, — 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 

I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  : 
The  night  that  foUow'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade. 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  pass'd, 
And  thou  wert  lovely  to  the  last, 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd  : 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept — if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed 
To  think  I  was  not  near  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  ; 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head, 

II.— 6 


82  GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON. 

And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain 

(Though  thou  hast  left  me  free) 
The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain, 

Than  thus  remember  thee  : 
The  all  of  thine  that  can  not  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  eternity 

Returns  again  to  me  ; 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught,  except  its  living  years. 

SONG  OF  SA  UL. 

BEFORE   HIS   LAST    BATTLE. 

"Warriors  and  chiefs  !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 
Pierce  me  in  leading  the  host  of  the  Lord, 
Heed  not  the  corse,  though  a  king's,  in  your  path  ! 
Bury  your  steel  in  the  bosoms  of  Gath  ! 

Thou  who  art  bearing  my  buckler  and  bow  ! 
Should  the  soldiers  of  Saul  look  away  from  the  foe. 
Stretch  me  that  moment  in  blood  at  thy  feet ! 
Mine  be  the  doom  which  they  dared  not  to  meet  ! 

Farewell  to  others  !  but  never  we  part, 
Heir  to  my  royalty,  son  of  my  heart ! 
Bright  is  the  diadem,  boundless  the  sway, — 
Or  kingly  the  death  which  aAvaits  us  to-day. 

THE  PATRIOT. 

Thy  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun  ; 

Thy  country's  strains  record 
The  triumphs  of  her  chosen  son, 

The  slaughters  of  his  sword  : 
The  deeds  he  did,  the  fields  he  won, 

The  freedom  he  restored. 


GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON.  83 

Though  thou  art  fallen,  while  we  are  free 

Thou  shalt  not  taste  of  death  : 
The  generous  blood  that  flow'd  from  thee 

Disdain'd  to  sink  beneath; 
Within  our  veins  its  currents  be, 

Thy  spirit  in  our  breath. 

Thy  name,  our  charging  hosts  along, 

Shall  be  the  battle-word  ; 
Thy  fall  the  theme  of  choral  song 

From  virgin  voices  pour'd  : 
To  weep  would  do  thy  glory  wrong, — 

Thou  shalt  not  be  deplored  ! 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEA  UTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pilre,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, — 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 


84  GEORGE  GORDON  BYRON. 

BYRON'S  LAST  VERSE. 

"  On  this  day  I  comJ>lete  my  thirty-sixth  year" 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved, 
Since  others  it  hath  ceased  to  move  : 
Yet,  though  I  can  not  be  beloved, 
Still  let  me  love  ! 

My  days  are  in  the  yellow  leaf; 

The  flowers  and  fruits  of  love  are  gone  : 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief, 
Are  mine  alone. 

The  fire  that  on  my  bosom  preys 

Is  lone  as  some  volcanic  isle  : 
No  torch  is  kindled  at  its  blaze, — 
A  funeral  pile. 

The  hope,  the  fear,  the  jealous  care. 

The  exalted  portion  of  the  pain 
And  power  of  love,  I  can  not  share. 
But  wear  the  chain. 

But  'tis  not  thus,  and  'tis  not  here, 

Such  thoughts  should  shake  my  soul,  nor  now, — 
Where  glory  decks  the  hero's  bier 
Or  binds  his  brow. 

The  sword,  the  banner,  and  the  field, — • 

Glory  and  Greece,  around  me  see  ! 
The  Spartan  borne  upon  his  shield 
Was  not  more  free. 

Awake not  Greece  !  she  is  awake  : 

Awake,  my  Spirit !     Think  through  whom 
Thy  life-blood  tracks  its  parent  lake, 
And  then  strike  home  ! 

Tread  those  reviving  passions  down, 
Unworthy  manhood !     Unto  thee 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY.  8$ 

Indifferent  should  the  smile  or  frown 
Of  Beauty  be. 

If  thou  regret'st  thy  youth,  why  live  ? 

The  land  of  honourable  death 
Is  here.     Up,  to  the  field,  and  give 
Away  thy  breath ! 

Seek  out  (less  often  sought  than  found) 

A  soldier's  grave,  for  thee  the  best ! 
Then  look  around,  and  choose  thy  ground, 
And  take  thy  rest ! 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 

1792 — 1822. 


TO   A    SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest ; 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire. 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest ; 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun. 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  Joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight  : 


86  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 

Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  dayhght, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight : 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflow'd. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not : 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 
Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 
Its  atrial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY.  8/ 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous  and  clear  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird  ! 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

Or  triumphal  chant, 
Match'd  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  can  not  be  ; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  ; 
Thou  lov^st,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 


88  PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY. 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet,  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear. 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 
'  That  thy  brain  must  know. 

Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then  as  I  am  listening  now. 

LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee, 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me  (who  knows  how  ?) 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 
On  the  dark  and  silent  stream, 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY.  89 

The  champak  odours  pine 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, — 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 
Beloved  as  thou  art ! 

O,  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 
I  die  !   I  faint !  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale  ! 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast  : 
O,  press  it  close  to  thine  again. 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

TO  NIGHT. 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  Western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  Eastern  cave. 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear  : 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 

Star-inwrought  ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day ! 
Kiss  him  until  he  be  wearied  out  ! 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land. 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand  ! 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  : 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone. 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree ; 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest. 


90  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 
I  sigh'd  for  thee. 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried — 

"  Wouldst  thou  me  ?  " 
Thy  sweet  child,  Sleep  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd  like  a  noontide  bee — 
"  Shall  I  nestle  by  thy  side  ? 

Wouldst  thou  me  ?  "  And  I  replied — 

No  !  not  thee. 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon  ! 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  : 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night  ! 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight ! 

Come  soon,  soon ! 

A  BRIDAL  SONG. 
The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 

Where  Strength  and  Beauty,  met  together. 
Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 

In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather  ! 
Night !  with  all  thy  stars  look  down ; 

Darkness  !  weep  thy  holiest  dew  : 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  Moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight  ! 
Haste,  swift  Hour  !  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew  ! 

Fairies  !  sprites  !  and  angels  !  keep  her  ; 

Holy  stars  !   permit  no  wrong  ; 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Dawn  !  ere  it  be  long. 
O  joy  !  O  fear  !  what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ? 

Come  alonir ! 


PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY,  91 


SONG. 

False  Friend  !  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier. 

Farewell !  heigh  ho  ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  Dear  ! 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  Sleep  !  were  Death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain  : 
When  to  wake  ?     Never  again. 

O  World  !  farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 


POLITICAL   GREATNESS. 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame, 

Nor  peace,  nor  strength,  nor  skill  in  arms  or  arts. 

Shepherd  those  herds  whom  Tyranny  makes  tame 

Verse  echoes  not  one  beating  of  their  hearts  ; 

History  is  but  the  shadow  of  their  shame  ; 

Art  veils  her  glass,  or  from  the  pageant  starts. 

As  to  Oblivion  their  millions  fleet 

Staining  that  heaven  with  obscene  imagery 

Of  their  own  likeness.     What  are  numbers  knit 

By  force  or  custom  ?     Man,  who  man  would  be. 

Must  rule  the  empire  of  himself;  in  it 

Must  be  supreme,  establishing  his  throne 

On  vanquish'd  will,  quelling  the  anarchy 

Of  hopes  and  fears, — being  Himself  alone. 


92  JOHN   KEATS. 


A   IVAIL. 

Rough  Wind  !  that  meanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song, — 
Wild  Wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long  ! 
Sad  Storm,  whose  tears  are  vain  ! 
Bare  Woods,  whose  branches  strain  ! 
Deep  Caves  !  and  dreary  Main  ! 

Wail  for  the  world's  wrong  ! 


JOHN  KEATS. 
179s— 1821. 


HYMN  TO  pan: 

O  Thou  !  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death, 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness, — 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  Hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels  darken, — 
And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit  and  hearken 
The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds, 
In  desolate  places  where  dank  moisture  breeds 
The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth. 
Bethinking  thee  how  melancholy  loath 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx,— do  thou  now, 
By  thy  Love's  milky  brow. 
By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan  ! 

O  Thou  !  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet  turtles 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  'mong  myrtles. 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows  that  outskirt  the  side 
Of  thine  enmossed  realms, — O  Thou  !  to  whom 


JOHN   KEATS.  93 

Broad -leafed  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripen'd  fruitage,  yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs,  our  village  leas 
Their  fairest-blossom'd  beans  and  poppied  corn, 
The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn 
(To  sing  for  thee),  low-creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness,  pent  up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings, — yea !  the  fresh-budding  year 
All  its  completions, — be  quickly  near! 
By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O  forester  divine  ! 

Thou !  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service,  whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit. 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle's  maw, 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewilder'd  shepherds  to  their  path  again. 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main 
And  gather  up  all  fancifuUest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads'  cells 
And  (being  hidden)  laugh  at  their  out-peeping,— 
Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping 
The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples  and  fir-cones  brown,-  — 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 
Hear  us,  O  Satyr  King  ! 

O  hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears  ! 
V/hile  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A  ram  goes  bleating, — winder  of  the  horn  ! 
When  snouted  wild  boars,  routing  tender  corn, 
Anger  our  huntsmen, — breather  round  our  farms  ! 
To  keep  off  mildews  and  all  weather  harms, — 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors ! 


94  JOHN   KEATS. 

Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge  !  see 
Great  Son  of  Dryope  ! 

The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows, 
With  leaves  about  their  brows. 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 

For  solitary  thinkings,  such  as  dodge 

Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 

Then  leave  the  naked  brain  !  be  still  the  leaven 

That,  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth. 

Gives  it  a  touch  ethereal,  a  new  birth ! 

Be  still  a  symbol  of  immensity, 

A  firmament  reflected  in  a  sea. 

An  element  filling  the  space  between ! 

An  unknown But,  no  more  !     We  humbly  screen 

With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bending, 
And,  giving  out  a  shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  paean 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean  ! 

ROUNDELAY. 

O,  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  natural  hue  of  health  from  vermeil  lips  ? — 

To  give  maiden  blushes 

To  the  white  rose  bushes  ? 
Or  is  it  thy  dewy  hand  the  daisy  tips  ? 

O,  Sorrow  ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
The  lustrous  passion  from  a  falcon  eye  ?  — 

To  give  the  glow-worm  light  ? 

Or  on  a  moonless  night 
To  tinge,  on  syren  shores,  the  salt  sea-spry  ? 

O,  Sorrow ! 
Why  dost  borrow 


JOHN   KEATS.  95 

The  mellow  ditties  from  a  mourning  tongue  ? — 

To  give  at  evening  pale 

Unto  the  nightingale, 
That  thou  mayst  listen  the  cold  dews  among  ? 

O,  Sorrow ! 

Why  dost  borrow 
Heart's  lightness  from  the  merriment  of  May  ? — • 

A  lover  would  not  tread 

A  cowslip  on  the  head, 
Though  he  should  dance  from  eve  till  peep  of  day,— 

Nor  any  drooping  flower 

Held  sacred  for  thy  bower, 
Wherever  he  may  sport  himself  and  play. 

To  Sorrow 

I  bade  Good-morrow ! 
And  thought  to  leave  her  far  away  behind  : 

But,  cheerly  !  cheerly  ! 

She  loves  me  dearly, — 
She  is  so  constant  to  me  and  so  kind  : 

I  would  deceive  her, 

And  so  leave  her, 
But,  ah !  she  is  so  constant  and  so  kind. 

Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  in  the  whole  world  wide 
There  was  no  one  to  ask  me  why  I  wept ; 

And  so  I  kept 
Brimming  the  water-lily  cups  with  tears 

Cold  as  my  fears. 

Beneath  my  palm-trees,  by  the  river  side, 
I  sat  a-weeping  :  what  enamour'd  bride. 
Cheated  by  shadowy  wooer  from  the  clouds, 

But  hides  and  shrouds 
Beneath  dark  palm-trees  by  a  river  side  ? 


96  JOHN   KEATS. 

And,  as  I  sat,  over  the  light  blue  hills 
There  came  a  noise  of  revellers  ;  the  rills 
Into  the  wide  stream  came  of  purple  hue  : — 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  crew ! 
The  earnest  trumpet  spake,  and  silver  thrills 
From  kissing  cymbals  made  a  merry  din  : 

'Twas  Bacchus  and  his  kin  ! 
Like  to  a  moving  vintage  down  they  came, 
Crown'd  with  green  leaves,  and  faces  all  on  flame  ; 
All  madly  dancing  through  the  pleasant  valley, 

To  scare  thee,  Melancholy  ! 
O  then,  O  then,  thou  wast  a  simple  name, 
And  1  forgot  thee,  as  the  berried  holly 
By  shepherds  is  forgotten  when  in  June 
Tall  chestnuts  keep  away  the  sun  and  moon  :  — 

I  rush'd  into  the  folly. 

Within  his  car  aloft  young  Bacchus  stood, 
Trifling  his  ivy  dart,  in  dancing  mood. 

With  sidelong  laughing  ; 
And  little  rills  of  crimson  wine  imbrued 
His  plump  white  arms,  and  shoulders  enough  white 

For  Venus'  pearly  bite  ; 
And  near  him  rode  Silenus  on  his  ass, 
Pelted  with  flowers  as  he  on  did  pass 

Tipsily  quaffing. 

Whence  came  ye  ?  merry  Damsels  !  whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  bowers  desolate. 

Your  lutes,  and  gentler  fate  ? — 
"  We  follow  Bacchus,  Bacchus  on  the  wing, 

A-conquering. 
Bacchus  !   young  Bacchus  !  good  or  ill  betide, 
We  dance  before  him  thorough  kingdoms  wide  : 
Come  hither,  Lady  fair  !  and  joined  be 

To  our  wild  minstrelsy  !  " 


JOHN   KEATS.  97 

Whence  came  ye  ?  jolly  Satyrs  !  whence  came  ye, 
So  many,  and  so  many,  and  such  glee  ? 
Why  have  ye  left  your  forest  haunts,  why  left 

Your  nuts  in  oak-tree  cleft  ? — 
"  For  wine,  for  wine  we  left  our  kernel  tree; 
For  wine  we  left  our  heath  and  yellow  brooms 

And  cold  mushrooms  ; 
For  wine  we  follow  Bacchus  through  the  earth, — 
Great  God  of  breathless  cups  and  chirping  mirth  ! 
Come  hither.  Lady  fair  !  and  joined  be 

To  our  mad  minstrelsy  !  " 

Over  wide  streams  and  mountains  great  we  went. 
And,  save  when  Bacchus  kept  his  ivy  tent, 
Onward  the  tiger  and  the  leopard  pants. 

With  Asian  elephants  ; 
Onward  these  myriads,  with  song  and  dance  : 
With  zebras  striped,  and  sleek  Arabians'  prance, 
Web-footed  alligators,  crocodiles 
Bearing  upon  their  scaly  backs,  in  files, 
Plump  infant  laughers  mimicking  the  coil 
Of  seamen  and  stout  galley-rowers'  toil  : 
With  toying  oars  and  silken  sails  they  glide. 

Nor  care  for  wind  and  tide. 
Mounted  on  panthers'  furs  and  lions'  manes. 
From  rear  to  van  they  scour  about  the  plains, 
A  three  days'  journey  in  a  moment  done  ; 
And  always,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
About  the  wilds  they  hunt  with  spear  and  horn, 

On  spleenful  unicorn. 

I  saw  Osirian  Egypt  kneel  adown 

Before  the  vine-wreath  crown ; 
I  saw  parch'd  Abyssinia  rouse  and  sing 

To  the  silver  cymbals  ring ; 
I  saw  the  whelming  vintage  hotly  pierce 

Old  Tartary  the  fierce  ; 
II.-7 


98  JOHN   KEATS. 

The  kings  of  Ind  their  jewel-sceptres  vail, 
And  from  their  treasures  scatter  pearled  hail ; 
Great  Brahma  from  his  mystic  heaven  groans, 

And  all  his  priesthood  moans. 
Before  young  Bacchus'  eye-wink  turning  pale. 
Into  these  regions  came  I,  following  him, 
Sick-hearted,  weary  :   so  I  took  a  whim 
To  stray  away  into  these  forests  drear. 

Alone,  without  a  peer  : 
And  I  have  told  thee  all  thou  mayest  hear. 

Young  Stranger  ! 

I've  been  a  ranger 
In  search  of  pleasure  throughout  every  clime  : 

Alas  !  'tis  not  for  me  ; 

Bewitch'd  I  sure  must  be 
To  lose  in  grieving  all  my  maiden  prime. 

Come  then,  Sorrow  ! 

Sweetest  Sorrow  ! 
Like  an  own  babe  I  nurse  thee  on  my  breast : 

I  thought  to  leave  thee, 

And  deceive  thee. 
But  now  of  all  the  world  I  love  thee  best. 

There  is  not  one, 

No  !  no  !  not  one 
But  thee  to  comfort  a  poor  lonely  maid  : 

Thou  art  her  mother, 

And  her  brother. 
Her  playmate,  and  her  wooer  in  the  shade. 

ODE  ON  A   GRECIAN  URN. 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  ! 
Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time  ! 
Sylvan  historian  !  who  canst  thus  express 


JOHN   KEATS.  99 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men,  or  Gods,  are  these  !  what  maidens  loath  ! 

What  mad  pursuit  !  what  struggle  to  escape  ! 

What  pipes  and  timbrels  !  what  wild  ecstacy  ! 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter :  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes  !  play  on, — 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  ! 
Fair  youth  beneath  the  trees  !  thou  canst  not  leave 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare. 
Bold  lover  !  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal ;  yet  do  not  grieve  ! 
She  can  not  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss  : 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  fair. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  can  not  shed 
Your  leaves  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu  ; 
And  happy  melodist  !  unwearied. 
For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy  happy  love  ! 
For  ever  warm,  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 
For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young, — 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 
To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest ! 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  dress'd  ? 
What  little  town,  by  river  or  sea-shore, 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk  this  pious  morn  ? 


100  JOHN   KEATS. 

And,  little  town  !  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  be ;  and  not  a  soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape  !  fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 

With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed. 

Thou,  silent  form  !  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought. 

As  doth  Eternity.     Cold  Pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  Man,  to  whom  thou  say'st — 

Beauty  is  Truth,  Truth  Beauty :  that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know. 


TO  AUTUMN. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  Sun  ! 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run ; 

To  bend  with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees. 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel  ;  to  set  budding  more. 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees. 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 

For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  Thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor. 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-rcap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  ; 


JOHN   KEATS.  lOI 

And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 

Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook ; 

Or  by  a  cider-press,  with  patient  look, 

Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?     Ay  !  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them  !  thou  hast  thy  music  too. 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  : 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn  ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  redbreast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft, 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 


GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead  ! 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun, 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a  voice  will  run 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown  mead  : 

That  is  the  Grasshopper's,  he  takes  the  lead 

In  summer  luxury  ;   he  has  never  done 

With  his  delights,  for  when  tired  out  with  fun 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never  : 

On  a  lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Has  wrought  a  silence,  from  the  stove  there  shrills 

The  Cricket's  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever  ; 

And  seems  to  One  in  drowsiness  half  lost 

The  Grasshopper's  among  some  grassy  hills, 


102  CHARLES   WOLFE. 

CHARLES  WOLFE. 
1791— 1823. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE, 

On  the  ramparts  of  Corufina. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  ramparts  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning. 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him  ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollo w'd  his  narrow  bed 

And  smooth'd  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  hend. 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow. 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone. 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him  ; 
But  little  he'll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring. 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
Of  the  enemy  suddenly  firing. 


FELICIA   DOROTHEA   HEMANS.  IO3 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  : 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

FELICIA   DOROTHEA   HEMANS. 
1793—1835. 


HER    GRAVE. 
Where  shall  we  make  her  grave  ? 
O,  where  the  wild  flowers  wave 

In  the  free  air  : 
When  shower  and  singing  bird 
'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard, 
There — lay  her  there  ! 

Harsh  was  the  world  to  her  : 
Now  may  sleep  minister 

Balm  for  each  ill ! 
Low  on  sweet  Nature's  breast 
Let  the  meek  heart  find  rest, 

Deep,  deep  and  still! 

Murmur,  glad  waters  !  by  ; 
Faint  gales  !  with  happy  sigh 

Come  wandering  o'er 
That  green  and  mossy  bed, 
Where  on  a  gentle  head 

Storms  beat  no  more. 

What  though  for  her  in  vain 
Falls  now  the  bright  Spring  rain, 

Plays  the  soft  wind, 
Yet  still  from  where  she  lies 
Should  blessed  breathings  rise, 

Gracious  and  kind. 

Therefore  let  song  and  dew 
Thence  in  the  heart  renew 


104  WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT. 

Life's  vernal  glow  ; 
And  o'er  that  holy  earth 
Scents  of  the  violets'  birth 

Still  come  and  go  ! 

O  then,  where  wild  flowers  wave 
Make  ye  her  mossy  grave 

In  the  free  air, 
Where  shower  and  singing  bird 
'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard ! 

There,  lay  her  there  ! 

WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 
1794— 1878. 


TO  A    WATER-FOWL. 

Whither,  midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far  through  their  rosy  depths  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 

As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky. 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 

Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean-side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 

Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 

The  desert  and  illimitable  air 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fann'd 

At  that  far  height  the  cold  tliin  atmosphere, 


WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT.  105 

Yet  stoop  not  weary  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  : 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 
Soon,  o'er  thy  shelter'd  nest. 

Thou  art  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd  up  thy  form  ;   yet  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given. 
And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He,  who  from  zone  to  zone 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

TO    THE   FRINGED    GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom  !  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colour'd  with  the  heaven's  own  blue. 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night  : 

Thou  com&st  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen. 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dress'd. 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest ; 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  comest  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown. 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  agfed  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky  : 
Blue,  blue  as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 


I06  WILLIAM    CULLEN   BRYANT. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


HYMN   OF    THE   CITY. 

Not  in  the  solitude 
Alone  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale  the  present  Deity, 

Or  only  hear  His  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps.  Almighty  ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd, 

Through  the  great  City  roU'd 
With  everlasting  murmur  deep  and  loud, 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human  kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings  lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes  ; 
For  them  Thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded  skies, 

And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  Spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  along ; 

And  this  eternal  sound, 
(Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng) 

Like  the  resounding  sea 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  Thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine 
Hushing  its  billowy  breast. 


WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT.  lO/ 

The  quiet  of  that  moment  too  is  Thine  : 
It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  City  while  it  sleeps. 


TO   THE  NORTH  STAR. 

The  sad  and  solemn  Night 

Hath  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  : 

The  glorious  host  of  light 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens,  and  go. 

Day  too  hath  many  a  star 

To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they  : 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar. 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way  : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim. 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with  him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 

Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet ; 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western  main. 

There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 

Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air ; 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there ; 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure  walls. 

Alike  beneath  thine  eye 

The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  : 

High  tow'rds  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze  ;  the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun  ; 


I08  WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud ; 

And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and  cloud. 

On  thine  unaltering  blaze 

The  half-wreck'd  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze. 
And  steers  undoubting  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes  by  night 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their  footsteps  right. 

And  therefore  bards  of  old, 

Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  Unchanging  Good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  Time  should  shape  his  heedful  way. 

THE    THIRD  OF  NOVEMBER. 
1861. 

Softly  breathes  the  West  wind  beside  the  ruddy  forest, 
Taking  leaf  by  leaf  from  the  branches  where  he  flies  ; 
Sweetly  streams  the  sunshine  this  third  day  of  November, 
Through  the  golden  haze  of  the  quiet  autumn  skies. 

Tenderly  the  season  has  spared  the  grassy  meadows, 
Spared  the  petted  flowers  that  the  old  world  gave  the  new  : 
Spared  the  autumn  rose  and  the  garden's  group  of  pansies. 
Late-blown  dandelions  and  periwinkles  blue. 

On  my  cornice  linger  the  ripe  black  grapes  ungather'd  ; 
Children  fill  the  groves  with  the  echoes  of  their  glee. 
Gathering  tawny  chestnuts,  and  shouting  when  beside  them 
Drops  the  heavy  fruit  of  the  tall  black-walnut  tree. 

Glorious  are  the  woods  in  their  latest  gold  and  crimson, 
Yet  our  full-leaved  willows  are  in  their  freshest  green  : 
Such  a  kindly  autumn,  so  mercifully  dealing 
With  the  growths  of  summer,  I  never  yet  have  seen. 


THOMAS   CARLYLE.  IO9 

Like  this  kindly  season  may  life's  decline  come  o'er  me  ! 
Pass'd  is  manhood's  summer,  the  frosty  months  are  here  : 
Yet  be  genial  airs  and  a  pleasant  sunshine  left  me, 
Leaf  and  fruit  and  blossom,  to  mark  the  closing  year ! 

Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  flowers  of  earth  are  wither'd  ; 
Dreary  is  the  time  when  the  woodland  leaves  are  cast, 
When  upon  the  hillside,  all  harden'd  into  iron. 
Howling  like  a  wolf  flies  the  famish'd  Northern  blast. 

Dreary  are  the  years  when  the  eye  can  look  no  longer 
With  delight  on  Nature  or  hope  on  human  kind  : 
O,  may  those  that  whiten  my  temples,  as  they  pass  me, 
Leave  the  heart  unfrozen  and  spare  the  cheerful  mind. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 
179s— 1881. 


ADIEU! 
Let  Time  and  Chance  combine,  combine  ! 
Let  Time  and  Chance  combine  ! 
The  fairest  love  from  heaven  above, 
That  love  of  yours,  was  mine, 

My  Dear  ! 
That  love  of  yours  was  mine. 

The  Past  is  fled  and  gone,  and  gone  : 

The  Past  is  fled  and  gone  : 

If  nought  but  pain  to  me  remain, 

ril  fare  in  memory  on, 

My  dear ! 

ril  fare  in  memory  on. 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall,  must  fall  : 

The  saddest  tears  must  fall  : 

In  weal  or  woe,  in  this  world  below, 

I  love  you  ever  and  all, 

My  Dear ! 

I  love  you  ever  and  all. 


no  JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS. 

A  long  road  full  of  pain,  of  pain  : 

A  long  road  full  of  pain  : 

One  soul,  one  heart,  sworn  ne'er  to  part, — 

We  ne'er  can  meet  again, 

My  Dear  ! 

We  ne'er  can  meet  again. 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow,  allow; 

Hard  fate  will  not  allow  : 

We  blessed  were  as  the  angels  are  : — 

Adieu  for  ever  now, 

My  Dear ! 

Adieu  for  ever  now  ! 

JOHN  HAMILTON  REYNOLDS. 

1794— 1852. 


HOUR  AFTER  HOUR. 

Hour  after  hour  departs, 

Recklessly  flying  ; 
The  golden  time  of  our  hearts 

Is  fast  a-dying  : 
O,  how  soon  it  will  have  faded ! 
Joy  droops,  with  forehead  shaded  ; 

And  r^Iemory  starts. 

When  I  am  gone,  O  wear 
Sweet  smiles  !  thy  dwelling 

Choose  where  flowers  feed  the  air, 
And  the  sea  is  swelling ! 

And  near  where  some  rivulet  lingers 

In  the  grass,  like  an  infant's  fingers 
In  its  mother's  hair. 

Thy  spirit  should  steep  its  wing 

In  the  dews  of  Nature  ; 
And  the  living  airs  of  Spring 


JOHN   HAMILTON   REYNOLDS.  Ill 

Should  give  each  feature 
Of  thy  face  a  rich  lustrous  smiling, — 
Thy  thoughts  from  that  gloom  beguiling 

Which  cold  hours  bring. 

Farewell  to  our  delights  ! 

Love  !  we  are  parted. 
Come  with  thy  silvery  nights, 

Autumn,  gold-hearted  ! 
Let  our  two  hearts  be  wreathing 
Their  hopes- when  the  eve  is  breathing 

Through  leaf-starr'd  lights ! 

SONG. 
Go  where  the  water  glideth  gently  ever, 

Glideth  by  meadows  that  the  greenest  be  ; 
Go,  listen  to  our  own  beloved  river  : 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Wander  in  forests  where  the  small  flower  layeth 

Its  fairy  gem  beside  the  giant  tree  ; 
Listen  the  dim  brook  pining  while  it  playeth  : 
And  think  of  me  ! 

Watch  when  the  sky  is  silver  pale  at  even. 

And  the  wind  grieveth  in  the  lonely  tree  ; 
Go  out  beneath  the  solitary  heaven  : 
And  think  of  me  ! 

And  when  the  moon  riseth  as  she  were  dreaming, 
And  treadeth  with  white  feet  the  lulled  sea. 
Go,  silent  as  a  star  beneath  her  beaming, 
And  think  of  me  ! 

SHERWOOD  FOREST. 
The  trees  in  Sherwood  Forest  are  old  and  good. 
The  grass  beneath  them  now  is  dimly  green  : 
Are  they  deserted  all  ?     Is  no  young  mien, 


112  HARTLEY   COLERIDGE. 

With  loose-slung  bugle,  met  within  the  wood  ? 

No  arrow  found,  foil'd  of  its  antler'd  food. 

Stuck  in  the  oak's  rude  side  ?     Is  there  nought  seen 

To  mark  the  revelries  which  there  have  been, 

In  the  sweet  days  of  merry  Robin  Hood  ? 

Go  there,  with  summer  and  with  evening,  go 

In  the  soft  shadows,  like  some  wandering  man  ! 

And  thou  shalt  far  amid  the  forest  know 

The  archer  men  in  green,  with  belt  and  bow, 

Feasting  on  pheasant,  river-fowl  and  swan, 

With  Robin  at  their  head,  and  Marian. 

HARTLEY    COLERIDGE. 
1796 — 1849. 


SONG. 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be  ; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me  : 
O  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply  ; 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

WHITHER ? 

Whither  is  gone  the  wisdom  and  the  power 
That  ancient  sages  scatter'd  with  the  notes 
Of  thought-suggesting  lyres  ?     The  music  floats 
In  the  void  air;  even  at  this  breathing  hour. 
In  every  cell  and  every  blooming  bower 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL.  IJ 

The  sweetness  of  old  lays  is  hovering  still  : 
But  the  strong  soul,  the  self-sustaining  will, 
The  rugged  root  that  bare  the  winsome  ilower. 
Is  weak  and  wither'd.     Were  we  like  the  Fays 
That  sweetly  nestle  in  the  fox-glove  bells, 
Or  lurk  and  murmur  in  the  rose-lipp'd  shells 
Which  Neptune  to  the  earth  for  quit-rent  pays, 
Then  might  our  pretty  modern  Philomels 
Sustain  our  spirits  with  their  roundelays. 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 

1798— 183s. 


JEAN  IE  MORRISON. 

I've  wander'd  East,  I've  wander'd  West, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way, 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  of  life's  young  day  : 
The  fire  that's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cool. 

O  dear  dear  Jeanie  Morrison  ! 

The  thoughts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  o'er  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears  : 
They  blind  my  een  wi'  salt  salt  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine. 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'Twas  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel ; 

'Twas  then  we  twa  did  part  : 
Sweet  time  !  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns  and  but  ae  heart. 

IL— 8 


114  WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL. 

'Twas  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear  ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remember'd  evermair, 

I  wonder,  Jeanie  !  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  lock'd  in  loof. 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think  : 
When  baith  bent  down  o'er  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

O,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi'  shame, 
Whene'er  the  scule-weans  laughin'  said 

We  cleek'd  thegither  hame  ? 
And  mind  ye  o'  the  Saturdays 

(The  scule  then  skailt  at  noon) 
When  we  ran  afif  to  speel  the  braes. 

The  broomy  braes  o'  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about, 

My  heart  flows  like  a  sea. 
As  ane  by  ane  the  thoughts  rush  back 

O  scule-time  and  o'  thee  : 
O  mornin'  life  !  O  mornin'  luve  ! 

O  lightsome  days  and  lang. 
When  hinnied  hopes  around  our  hearts 

Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang  ! 

O  mind  ye,  Luve  !  how  aft  we  left 

The  deavin'  dinsome  toun, 
To  wander  by  the  green  burnside. 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 
The  simmer  leaves  hung  o'er  our  heads. 

The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet. 


WILLIAM   MOTHERWELL.  1X5 

And  in  the  gloamin'  o'  the  wood 
The  throssil  whussht  sweet. 

The  throssil  whussht  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  Nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies  ; 
And  on  the  knowe,  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat. 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay  !  ay  !  dear  Jeanie  Morrison  ! 

Tears  trickled  down  your  cheek, 
Like  dewbeads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak. 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  youn<;^, 
When  freely  gush'd  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung. 

I  marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison  ! 

Gin  I  hae  been  to  thee 
As  closely  twined  wi'  earliest  thoughts 

As  ye  hae  been  to  me. 
O  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 

Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine  ! 
O  say  gin  e'er  your  heart  grows  grit 

Wi'  dreamings  o'  lang  syne  ! 

I've  wander'd  East,  I've  wander'd  West, 

I've  borne  a  weary  lot  : 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near. 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 

Still  travels  on  its  way. 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 


Il6  THOMAS   HOOD. 

O  dear  dear  Jeanie  Morrison  ! 

Since  we  were  sinder'd  young 
I've  never  seen  your  face  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  : 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dream'd 

O'  bygane  days  and  me. 


THOMAS    HOOD. 
1799—1845. 


THE  BRIDGE    OF  SIGHS. 

One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly  ! 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ! 
Take  her  up  instantly  ! 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully  ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently,  and  humanly ! 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her! 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 


THOMAS   HOOD.  II7 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  undutiful ! 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  Beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family, — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily  ! 

Loop  up  her  tresses. 
Escaped  from  the  comb  ! 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  : 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses — 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a  dearer  One 

Still,  and  a  nearer  One 

Yet  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
O,  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly, 
Feelings  had  changed ; 
Love  by  harsh  evidence 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  : 


Il8  THOMAS   HOOD. 

Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement. 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch 
Or  the  black  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd, — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran. — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it,  think  of  it. 
Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly. 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly. 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly. 
Decently,  kindly. 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ! 


THOMAS   HOOD.  II9 

And  her  eyes,  close  them 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 

Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, — 
Spurr'd  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest. 

— Cross  her  hands  humbly  ! 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast, — 

Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behaviour : 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 


ODE    TO   AUTUMN. 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless,  like  Silence  listening 
To  silence  (for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn). 
Shaking  his  languid  locks  all  dewy  bright 
"With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ?     With  the  Sun, 

Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  South, 

Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one. 

And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm  odorous  mouth. 


I20  THOMAS    HOOD. 

Where  are  the  merry  birds  ?     Away,  away 
On  panting  wings  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey 

Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 

Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer  ?     In  the  West, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours. 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  press'd. 
Like  tearful  Proserpine  snatch'd  from  her  flowers, 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 
Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer,  the  green  prime, 
The  many  many  leaves  all  twinkling  ?     Three 
On  the  moss'd  elm,  three  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling,  and  one  upon  the  old  oak  tree. 
Where  is  the  Dryads'  immortality  ? 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew. 
Or  wearing  the  long  gloomy  winter  through 
In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 

The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplish'd  hoard  ; 

The  ants  have  brimm'd  their  garners  with  ripe  grain  ; 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  summer  in  their  luscious  cells  ; 
The  swallows  all  have  wing'd  across  the  main  ; 
But  here  the  autumn  Melancholy  dwells. 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Amongst  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain. 

Alone,  alone. 

Upon  a  mossy  stone 
She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  Dead  and  Gone, 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  love-rosary  : 
Whilst  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  Past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far-away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  that  distance,  grey  upon  the  grey. 


THOMAS   HOOD.  121 

O,  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 

Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair  ! 

She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 

Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care  ; — 

There  is  enough  of  wither'd  everywhere 

To  make  her  bower,  and  enough  of  gloom  ; 

There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite. 

If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  whose  doom 

Is  Beauty's, — she  that  with  the  living  bloom 

Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light  ; — 

There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 

Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the  earth  doth  bear, 

Enough  of  chilly  droppings  from  her  bowl  ; 

Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair 

To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul. 

TO  A    COLD  BEAUTY. 

Lady  !  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 

To  Winter's  cold  and  cruel  part  ? 
When  he  sets  the  rivers  free. 

Thou  dost  still  lock  up  thy  heart  : 
Thou  that  shouldst  outlast  the  snow 
But  in  the  whiteness  of  thy  brow. 

Scorn  and  cold  neglect  are  made 
For  winter  gloom  and  winter  wind  ; 

But  thou  wilt  wrong  the  summer  air 
Breathing  it  to  words  unkind, — 

Breath  which  only  should  belong 

To  love,  to  sunlight,  and  to  song. 

When  the  little  buds  unclose, 

Red,  and  white,  and  pied,  and  blue. 

And  that  virgin  flower,  the  rose. 
Opes  her  heart  to  hold  the  clew. 

Wilt  thou  lock  thy  bosom  up 

With  no  jewel  in  its  cup  ? 


122  THOMAS   HOOD. 

Let  not  cold  December  sit 

Thus  in  Love's  peculiar  throne  ! 
Brooklets  are  not  prison'd  now, 

But  crystal  frosts  are  all  agone  ; 
And  that  which  hangs  upon  the  spray, 
It  is  no  snow,  but  flower  of  May. 


LOVE'S   CONSTANCY. 

Still  glides  the  gentle  streamlet  on. 

With  shifting  current  new  and  strange  ; 

The  water  that  was  here  is  gone  : 

But  those  green  shadows  do  not  change. 

Serene,  or  ruffled  by  the  storm. 
On  present  waves,  as  on  the  past, 

The  mirror'd  grove  retains  its  form. 

The  self-same  trees  their  semblance  cast. 

The  hue  each  fleeting  globule  wears. 
That  drop  bequeaths  it  to  the  next : 

One  picture  still  the  surface  bears 
To  illustrate  the  murmur'd  text. 

So,  Love  !  however  time  may  flow, 
Fresh  hours  pursuing  those  that  flee, 

One  constant  image  still  shall  show 
My  tide  of  life  is  true  to  thee. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn. 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  Sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripcn'd  :  such  a  blush 


THOMAS   HOOD,  1 23 

In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell : 
But  long  lashes  veil'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat  with  shady  brim 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  : 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks. 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I  said,  heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  : 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown,  and  come  ! 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home  ! 

THE    TIME    OF  ROSES. 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast : 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses, — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

That  churlish  season  never  frown'd 

On  early  lovers  yet : 
O  no  !  the  world  was  newly  crown'd 

With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go ; 

But  still  you  held  me  fast : 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses, — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

What  else  could  peer  thy  glowing  cheek. 

That  tears  began  to  stud  ? 
And  when  I  ask'd  the  like  of  Love, 

You  snatch'd  a  damask  bud, 


124  CHARLES   WELLS. 

And  oped  it  to  the  dainty  core. 

Still  glowing  to  the  last. 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses  : 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd. 

CHARLES    WELLS. 
1800 — 1S79. 


SOJVG. 

Kiss  no  more  the  Vintages, 

Thou  hot-lipp'd  Sun  ! 
Flow  no  more  the  merry  wine 

From  the  dark  tun  ! 

Above  my  bed  hang  dull  nightshade, 
And  o'er  my  brows  the  willow  ! 

With  maiden  flowers  from  dewy  bowers 
Cover  my  last  pillow  ! 

Away  !  away  to  the  green  sward  ! 

My  young  heart  breaks  : 
Break  the  earth,  and  lay  me  deep  ! 

Love  my  breath  takes. 

Angels  !  pity,  and  hear  this  ditty 
Breathed  from  a  poor  girl's  lips  : 

O'er  her  lover  ever  hover, 
Scattering  earthly  bliss  ! 

Come,  thou  iron-crowned  Death  ! 

Into  my  stretched  arms, 
Bridegroom  to  my  maiden  breast ; 

End  my  sad  alarms  ! 

Lead  on,  lead  on,  thou  Love  of  Bone  ! 

Over  the  heath  wild  ; 
And  'neath  the  grass  secure  fast 

Thy  melancholy  child  ! 


WILLIAM   BARNES.  12$ 

SIR   HENRY  TAYLOR. 

I8CX3 


SONG. 
The  morning  broke,  and  Spring  was  there, 

And  lusty  Summer  near  her  birth  ; 
The  birds  awoke  and  waked  the  air. 

The  flowers  awoke  and  waked  the  earth. 

"  Up  !  "  quoth  he  :   "  what  joy  for  me, 
On  dewy  plain,  in  budding  brake  ! 
A  sweet  bird  sings  on  every  tree, 

And  flowers  are  sweeter,  for  my  sake." 

Lightly  o'er  the  plain  he  stepp'd. 

Lightly  brush'd  he  through  the  wood, 

And  snared  a  little  bird  that  slept 

And  had  not  waken'd  when  she  should. 

Lightly  through  the  wood  he  brush'd 
Lightly  stepp'd  he  o'er  the  plain  : 

And  yet — a  little  flower  was  crush'd 
That  never  raised  its  head  again. 

WILLIAM    BARNES. 


NOT  FAR  TO  GO. 

As  upland  fields  were  sun-burn'd  brown, 
And  heat-dried  brooks  were  running  small. 
And  sheep  were  gather'd,  panting  all, 

Below  the  hawthorn  on  the  down, — 

The  while  my  mare,  with  dipping  head, 
PuU'd  on  my  cart,  above  the  bridge, — 
I  saw  come  on,  beside  the  ridge, 

A  maiden  white  in  skin  and  thread, 

And  walking,  with  an  elbow  load, 

The  way  I  drove  along  my  road. 


126  WILLIAM   BARNES. 

As  there  with  comely  steps  up-hill 

She  rose,  by  elm  trees  all  in  ranks, 

From  shade  to  shade,  by  flowery  banks 
Where  flew  the  bird  with  whistling  bill, — • 
I  kindly  said — "  Now  won't  you  ride, 

This  burning  weather,  up  the  knap  ? 

I  have  a  seat  that  fits  the  trap. 
And  now  is  swung  from  side  to  side." 
"  O  no  !  "  she  cried, — "  I  thank  you,  no  ! 
I've  little  further  now  to  go." 

Then,  up  the  timber'd  slope,  I  found 
The  prettiest  house  a  good  day's  ride 
Would  bring  you  by,  with  porch  and  side 

By  rose  and  jessamine  well  bound  ; 

And  near  at  hand  a  spring  and  pool, 

With  lawn  well-sunn'd  and  bower  cool  : 
And,  while  the  wicket  fell  behind 
Her  steps,  I  thought — If  I  would  find 

A  wife  I  need  not  blush  to  show 

I've  little  further  now  to  go. 


MV  FORE-ELDERS. 

When  from  the  child,  that  still  is  led 
By  hand,  a  father's  hand  is  gone, — 
Or  when  a  few-year'd  mother  dead 

Has  left  her  children  growing  on, — 
When  men  have  left  their  children  staid, 
And  they  again  have  boy  and  maid, — 
O,  can  they  know,  as  years  may  roll. 
Their  children's  children,  soul  by  soul  ? 
If  this  with  souls  in  heaven  can  be, 
Do  my  fore-elders  know  of  me  ? 

My  elders'  elders,  man  and  wife. 
Were  borne  full  early  to  the  tomb, 


JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN.  12/ 

With  children  still  in  childhood  life 

To  play  with  butterfly  or  bloom. 
And  did  they  see  the  seasons  mould 
Their  faces  on,  from  young  to  old, 
As  years  might  bring  them,  turn  by  turn, 
A  time  to  laugh  or  time  to  mourn  ? 
If  this  with  souls  in  heaven  can  be, 
Do  my  fore-elders  know  of  me  ? 

How  fain  I  now  would  walk  the  floor 

Within  their  mossy  porch's  bow^ 
Or  linger  by  their  church's  door, 

Or  road  that  bore  them  to  and  fro. 
Or  nook  where  once  they  built  their  mow. 
Or  gateway  open  to  their  plough 
(Though  now  indeed  no  gate  is  swung 
That  their  live  hands  had  ever  hung), — 
If  I  could  know  that  they  would  see 
Their  child's  late  child,  and  know  of  me. 

JOHN    HENRY    NEWMAN. 
1801— 


THE  ELEMENTS. 

{A  tragic  chorus.') 

Man  is  permitted  much 
To  scan  and  learn 
In  Nature's  frame  : 
Till  he  well-nigh  can  tame 
Brute  mischiefs,  and  can  touch 
Invisible  things,  and  turn 
All  warring  ills  to  purposes  of  good. 
Thus,  as  a  God  below, 
He  can  controul 
And  harmonize  what  seems  amiss  to  flow 
As  sever'd  from  the  whole 
And  dimly  understood. 


128  JOHN   HENRY   NEWMAN. 

But  o'er  the  elements 

One  Hand  alone, 

One  Hand  has  sway. 
What  influence  day  by  day 
In  straiter  belt  prevents 
The  impious  Ocean,  thrown 
Alternate  o'er  the  ever-sounding  shore  ? 
Or  who  has  eye  to  trace 

How  the  Plague  came  ? 
Forerun  the  doublings  of  the  Tempest's  race  ? 
Or  the  Air's  weight  and  flame 
On  a  set  scale  explore  ! 

Thus  God  has  will'd  : 
That  man,  when  fully  skill'd, 
Still  gropes  in  twilight  dim  ; 
Encompass'd  all  his  hours 
By  fearfullest  powers 

Inflexible  to  him  : 
That  so  he  may  discern 

His  feebleness, 
And  even  for  earth's  success 
To  Him  in  wisdom  turn 
Who  holds  for  us  the  keys  of  either  home — 
Earth  and  the  world-to-come. 

A   VOICE  FROM  AFAR. 

Weep  not  for  me  ! 
Be  blithe  as  wont,  nor  tinge  with  gloom 
The  stream  of  love  that  circles  home, 

Light  hearts  and  free  ! 
Joy  in  the  gifts  Heaven's  bounty  lends  ; 
Nor  miss  my  face,  dear  friends! 

I  still  am  near  : 
Watching  the  smiles  I  prized  on  earth, 
Your  converse  mild,  your  blameless  mirth  ; 


HARRIET   MARTINEAU.  1 29 

Now  too  I  hear 
Of  whisper'd  sounds  the  tale  complete, 
Low  prayers,  and  musings  sweet. 

A  sea  before 
The  Throne  is  spread  :  its  pure  still  glass 
Pictures  all  earth- scenes  as  they  pass  ; 

We  on  its  shore 
Share,  in  the  bosom  of  our  rest, 
God's  knowledge,  and  are  bless'd. 

HARRIET  MARTINEAU. 
1802 — 1876. 


BENEATH  THE  ARCH. 

Beneath  this  starry  arch 

Nought  resteth  or  is  still ; 
But  all  things  hold  their  march 
As  if  by  one  great  Will  : 
Moves  one,  move  all  :  hark  to  the  foot-fall ! 
On,  on,  forever  ! 

Yon  sheaves  were  once  but  seed  ; 

Will  ripens  into  deed  ; 

As  cave-drops  swell  the  streams, 

Day-thoughts  feed  nightly  dreams  ; 

And  sorrow  tracketh  wrong, 

As  echo  follows  song  : 

On,  on,  forever! 

By  night,  like  stars  on  high, 

The  Hours  reveal  their  train  ; 
They  whisper,  and  go  by  : 
I  never  watch  in  vain. 
Moves  one,  move  all  :  hark  to  the  foot-fall! 
On,  on,  forever ! 
II.-9 


130  THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES. 

They  pass  the  cradle-head, 
And  there  a  promise  shed  ; 
They  pass  the  moist  new  grave, 
And  bid  rank  verdure  wave  ; 
They  bear  through  every  chme 
The  harvests  of  all  time 

On,  on,  forever ! 

THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES. 
1803 — 1849. 


SONG  OF  THE  STYGIAN  NAIADS. 

Prosperi,ne  may  pull  her  flowers, 
Wet  with  dew  or  wet  with  tears, 
Red  with  anger,  pale  with  fears  : 
Is  it  any  fault  of  ours 
If  Pluto  be  an  amorous  king, 

And  comes  home  nightly  laden. 
Underneath  his  broad  bat-wing, 
With  a  gentle  mortal  maiden  ? 
Is  it  so  ?     Wind  !  is  it  so  ? 
All  that  you  and  I  do  know 
Is  that  we  saw  fly  and  fix 
'Mongst  the  reeds  and  flowers  of  Styx, 

Yesterday, 
Where  the  Furies  made  their  hay 
For  a  bed  of  tiger-cubs, 
A  great  fly  of  Beelzebub's, — 
The  bee  of  hearts,  which  mortals  name 
Cupid,  Love,  and  Fie-for-shame. 

Proserpine  may  weep  in  rage, 
But,  ere  I  and  you  have  done 
Kissing,  bathing  in  the  sun, 
What  I  have  in  yonder  cage. 
Bird  or  serpent,  wild  or  tame. 
She  shall  guess  and  ask  in  vain  : 


THOMAS   LOVELL   BEDDOES.  131 

But  if  Pluto  does  it  again, 
It  shall  sing  out  loud  his  shame. 
What  hast  caught  then  ?  what  hast  caught  ? 
Nothing  but  a  poet's  thought 

Which  so  light  did  fall  and  fix 
'Mongst  the  reeds  and  flowers  of  Styx 

Yesterday, 
Where  the  Furies  made  their  hay 
For  a  bed  of  tiger-cubs, 
A  great  fly  of  Beelzebub's, — 
The  bee  of  hearts,  which  mortals  name 
Cupid,  Love,  and  Fie-for-shame. 

HOIV  MANY   TIMES? 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee  ?    Dear  ! 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 

In  the  atmosphere 

Of  a  new-fallen  year. 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 
The  latest  flake  of  Eternity  : — 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee.  Dear  ! 

How  many  times  do  1  love,  again? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 

In  a  silver  chain 

Of  evening  rain 
Unraveled  from  the  trembling  main 
And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star  : — 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 

SEA    SONG. 

To  sea  !  to  sea!     The  calm  is  o'er  : 

The  wanton  water  leaps  in  sport. 
And  rattles  down  the  pebbly  shore  ; 

The  dolphin  wheels,  the  sea-cows  snort. 
And  unseen  mermaids'  pearly  song 
Comes  bubbling  up  the  weeds  among. 


132  RICHARD    HENGIST   HORNE. 

Fling  broad  the  sail  !  dip  deep  the  oar  ! 
To  sea  !  to  sea !  the  calm  is  o'er. 

To  sea  !  to  sea  !  our  vvide-wing'd  bark 
Shall  billowy  cleave  its  sunny  way, 

And  with  its  shadow,  fleet  and  dark, 
Break  the  caved  Tritons'  azure  day  : 

Like  mighty  eagles  soaring  light 

O'er  antelopes  on  Alpine  height. 

The  anchor  heaves,  the  ship  swings  free. 

The  sail  swells  full  :  to  sea  !  to  sea  ! 

RICHARD    HENGIST   HORNE. 
1803— 


GENIUS. 
Far  out  at  sea, — the  sun  was  high, 
While  veer'd  the  wind  and  flapp'd  the  sail, 
We  saw  a  snow-white  butterfly 
Dancing  before  the  fitful  gale. 

Far  out  at  sea. 

The  little  wanderer,  who  had  lost 
His  way,  of  danger  nothing  knew  ; 
Settled  awhile  upon  the  mast, — 
Then  flutter'd  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
Far  out  at  sea. 

Above,  there  gleam'd  the  boundless  sky; 
Beneath,  the  boundless  ocean  sheen  ; 
Between  them  danced  the  butterfly, 
The  spirit-life  of  this  vast  scene, — 
Far  out  at  sea, 

The  tiny  soul  then  soar'd  away. 
Seeking  the  clouds  on  fragile  wings, 
Lured  by  the  brighter,  purer  ray 
Which  hope's  ecstatic  morning  brings, — 
Far  out  at  sea. 


RICHARD    HENGIST   HORNE.  133 

Away  he  sped  with  shimmering  glee, 
Scarce  seen,  now  lost,  yet  onward  borne  ! 
Night  comes,  with  wind  and  rain,  and  he 
No  more  will  dance  before  the  Morn, 
Far  out  at  sea. 

He  dies,  unlike  his  mates,  I  ween, 
Perhaps  not  sooner  or  worse  cross'd  ; 
And  he  hath  felt,  thought,  known,  and  seen 
A  larger  life  and  hope — though  lost 
Far  out  at  sea. 

THE  LAUREL-SEED. 

Marmora  fitidit. 
I. 

A  despot  gazed  on  sun-set  clouds, 

Then  sank  to  sleep  amidst  the  gleam  ; — 

Forthwith,  a  myriad  starving  slaves 
Must  realize  his  lofty  dream. 

Year  upon  year,  all  night  and  day, 

They  toil'd,  they  died — and  were  replaced  ; 

At  length  a  marble  fabric  rose. 

With  cloud-like  domes  and  turrets  graced. 

No  anguish  of  those  herds  of  slaves 
E'er  shook  one  dome  or  wall  asunder, 

Nor  wars  of  other  mighty  Kings, 
Nor  lustrous  javelins  of  the  thunder. 


One  sunny  morn  a  lonely  bird 

Pass'd  o'er,  and  dropt  a  laurel-seed ; 

The  plant  sprang  up  amidst  the  walls 

Whose  chinks  were  full  of  moss  and  weed. 

The  laurel  tree  grew  large  and  strong. 
Its  roots  went  searching  deeply  down  ; 


134  RICHARD    HENGIST   HORNE. 

It  split  the  marljle  walls  of  Wrong, 
And  blossom'd  o'er  the  Despot's  crown. 

And  in  its  boughs  a  nightingale 

Sings  to  those  world-forgotten  graves  ; 

And  o'er  its  head  a  skylark's  voice 
Consoles  the  spirits  of  the  slaves. 

SOLITUDE  AND    THE  LILY. 
THE   LILY. 

I  bend  above  the  moving  stream, 
And  see  myself  in  my  own  dream, — 

Heaven  passing,  w-hile  I  do  not  pass. 
Something  divine  pertains  to  me, 
Or  I  to  it  :  reality 

Escapes  me  on  this  liquid  glass, 

SOLITUDE. 
The  changeful  clouds  that  float  or  poise  on  high 
Emblem  earth's  night  and  day  of  history  : 
Rcnew'd  for  ever,  evermore  to  die. 
Thy  life-dream  is  thy  fleeting  loveliness  ; 
But  mine  is  concentrated  consciousness, 
A  life  apart  from  pleasure  or  distress. 

The  grandeur  of  the  Whole 

Absorbs  my  soul, 
While  my  caves  sigh  o'er  human  littleness. 

THE    LILY. 

Ah,  Solitude  ! 
Of  marble  Silence  fit  abode, — 
I  do  prefer  my  fading  face, 
My  loss  of  loveliness  and  grace. 

With  cloud-dreams  ever  in  my  view; 
Also  the  hope  that  other  eyes 
May  share  my  rapture  in  the  skies 
And,  if  illusion,  feel  it  true. 


RICHARD    HENGIST   HORNE.  1 35 


THE  PLOUGH. 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 

Thou  seest  the  dawn's  grave  orange  hue, 

With  one  pale  streak  like  yellow  sand, 
And  over  that  a  vein  of  blue. 

The  air  is  cold  above  the  woods  ; 

All  silent  is  the  earth  and  sky, 
Except  with  his  own  lonely  moods 

The  blackbird  holds  a  colloquy. 

Over  the  broad  hill  creeps  a  beam, 

Like  hope  that  gilds  a  good  man's  brow  ; 

And  now  ascends  the  nostril-steam 
Of  stalwart  horses  come  to  plough. 

Ye  rigid  Ploughmen  !  bear  in  mind 

Your  labor  is  for  future  hours. 
Advance  !  spare  not !  nor  look  behind  ! 

Plough  deep  and  straight  with  all  your  powers  ! 


DIRGE. 

On  me,  on  me 

Time  and  Change  can  heap  no  more  ! 
The  painful  past  with  blighting  grief 
Hath  left  my  heart  a  wither'd  leaf : 
Time  and  Change  can  do  no  more. 

Earth's  barbed  woes 

Poised  on  the  breath  of  Fate's  dull  roar  ! 
Ye  move  me  not,  nor  breed  one  fear ; 
I  wait  your  coming,  and  can  bear  : 
Time  and  Change  can  do  no  more. 


136  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

NEWTON. 

The  Earth  was  but  a  platform  for  thy  power, 
Whereon  to  watch  and  work,  by  day  and  night ; 
The  Moon  to  thee  was  but  heaven's  evening  flower; 
The  Sun  a  loftier  argument  of  light ; 
Each  Planet  was  thy  fellow  traveler  bright, 
In  vision, — and,  in  thought,  still  nearer  home  : 
Throughout  the  Universe  thy  soul  took  flight, 
And  touch'd  at  suns  whose  rays  may  never  come. 
Though  star-tranced  Tycho  and  the  thought  sublime 
Of  Kepler  fathom'd  Heaven's  infinity, 
To  thee  'twas  left  to  prove  the  laws  that  chime 
Through  spheres  and  atoms, — being,  and  to  be  : 
Profound  alike  in  thy  humility, — 
"  A  child  that  gather'd  shells,  kneeling  beside  the  sea." 

RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 
1803— 1882. 


THE  PROBLEM. 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl, 

I  love  a  prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 

Fall  like  sweet  strains  or  pensive  smiles 

Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see 

Would  I  that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure 
Which  I  could  not  on  me  endure? 

Not  from  a  vain  or  shallow  thought 

His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 

Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 

The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle  ; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  Nature  roll'd 

The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old  ; 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  1 37 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 
Like  the  volcano's  tongue  of  flame, 
Up  from  the  burning  core  below, — 
The  canticles  of  love  and  woe  ; 
The  hand  that  rounded  Peter's  dome 
And  groin'd  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome 
Wrought  in  a  sad  sincerity  : 
Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free  ; 
He  builded  better  than  he  knew : 
The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know'st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird's  nest 

Of  leaves  and  feathers  from  her  breast? 

Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell. 

Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 

To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids. 

To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids  ; 

O'er  England's  Abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye  : 

For  out  of  Thought's  interior  sphere 

These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 

And  Nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 

Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 

With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

These  temples  grew,  as  grows  the  grass  : 

Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  Master  lent  his  hand 

To  the  vast  Soul  that  o'er  him  plann'd ; 

And  the  same  Power  that  rear'd  the  shrine 


138  RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON. 

Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 
Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 

The  Word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tablets  yet  unbroken; 
The  Word  by  seers  or  sybils  told, 
In  groves  of  oak  or  fanes  of  gold, 
Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 
Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 
One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 
I  know  what  say  the  Fathers  wise  : 
The  Book  itself  before  me  lies. 
Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 
And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 
The  younger  Golden-Lips  (or  Mines) — 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  Divines. 
His  words  are  music  in  my  ear; 
I  see  his  cowled  portrait  dear : 
And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 
I  would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 


TO    THE    HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing  Humble-Bee  ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far  off  heats  through  seas  to  seek  ! 
I  will  follow  thee  alone. 
Thou  animated  Torrid  Zone  ! 
Zigzag  steercr  !  desert  cheerer  ! 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines  ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singino  over  shrubs  and  vines  ! 


RALPH   WALDO   EMERSON.  139 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun  ! 

Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere  ! 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air  ! 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon  ! 

Epicurean  of  June  ! 

Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 

Within  earshot  of  thy  hum  ! 

All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  South  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a  colour  of  romance, — 
And,  infusing  subtle  heats, 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes. 
Rover  of  the  underwoods! 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  Midsummer's  petted  crone  ! 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone. 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers  ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found  ; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  Insect  never  seen  ; 

But  violets  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high. 


I40  RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON. 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 
Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catch-fly,  adder's  tongue. 
And  briar  roses  dwelt  among. 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste  : 
All  was  picture  as  he  pass'd. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breech'd  philosopher ! 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair. 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  Fate  and  Care, 
Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  North- Western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast. 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep. 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep  ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us. 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


TO  EVA. 

O  fair  and  stately  Maid  !  whose  eyes 
Were  kindled  in  the  upper  skies 
At  the  same  torch  that  lighted  mine, — 
For  so  I  must  interpret  still 
Thy  sweet  dominion  o'er  my  will, 
A  sympathy  divine  : 

Ah !  let  me  blameless  gaze  upon 

Features  that  seem  in  heart  my  own  ; 

Nor  fear  those  watchful  sentinels 

Which  charm  the  more  their  glance  forbids,- 

Chaste-glowing  underneath  their  lids 

With  fire  that  draws  while  it  repels. 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  I4I 


THE  APOLOGY. 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen! 

I  go  to  the  God  of  the  Wood, 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ! 
Each  cloud  that  floateth  in  the  sky 

Writes  a  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band ! 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought  : 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers ; 

Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong  : 
A  second  crop  thine  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 


GERALD    GRIFFIN. 

1803 — 1840. 


IN'   TIIY  MEMORY. 

A  place  in  thy  memory,  Dearest ! 

Is  all  that  I  claim  : 
To  pause  and  look  back  when  thou  hearest 

The  sound  of  my  name. 
Another  may  woo  thee,  nearer ; 


142  GERALD    GRIFFIN. 

Another  may  win  and  wear  : 
I  care  not  though  he  be  dearer, 
If  I  am  remember'd  there. 

Remember  me,  not  as  a  lover 

Whose  hope  was  cross'd, 
Whose  bosom  can  never  recover 

The  hght  it  hath  lost ! 
As  the  young  bride  remembers  the  mother 

She  loves,  though  she  never  may  see, 
As  a  sister  remembers  a  brother, 

O  Dearest  !  remember  me  ! 

Could  I  be  thy  true  lover,  Dearest ! 

Couldst  thou  smile  on  me, 
I  Avould  be  the  fondest  and  nearest 

That  ever  loved  thee  : 
But  a  cloud  on  my  pathway  is  glooming 

That  never  must  burst  upon  thine  ; 
And  heaven,  that  made  thee  all  blooming. 

Ne'er  made  thee  to  wither  on  mine. 

Remember  me  then  !     O  remember 

My  calm  light  love  ! 
Though  bleak  as  the  blasts  of  November 

My  life  may  prove. 
That  life  will,  though  lonely,  be  sweet 

If  its  brightest  enjoyment  should  be 
A  smile  and  kind  word  when  we  meet 

And  a  place  in  thy  memory. 


MAIDEN  E  YES. 

You  never  bade  me  hope,  'tis  true ; 

I  ask'd  you  not  to  swear : 
But  1  look'd  in  those  eyes  of  blue, 

And  read  a  promise  there. 


JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN.  143 

The  vow  should  bind,  with  maiden  sighs 

That  maiden  lips  have  spoken  : 
But  that  which  looks  from  maiden  eyes 

Should  last  of  all  be  broken. 

JAMES   CLARENCE   MANGAN. 
1803 — 1849. 


SOUL  AND  COUNTRY. 

Arise,  my  slumbering  soul  !  arise  ! 
And  learn  what  yet  remains  for  thee 

To  dree  or  do  : 
The  signs  are  flaming  in  the  skies ; 
A  struggling  world  would  yet  be  free, 

And  live  anew. 
The  earthquake  hath  not  yet  been  born 
That  soon  shall  rock  the  lands  around, 

Beneath  their  base ; 
Immortal  Freedom's  thunder  horn 
As  yet  yields  but  a  doleful  sound 

To  Europe's  race. 

Look  round,  my  soul  !  and  see,  and  say 
If  those  about  thee  understand 

Their  mission  here  : 
The  will  to  smite,  the  power  to  slay, 
Abound  in  every  heart  and  hand 

Afar,  anear  ; 
But,  God  !  must  yet  the  conqueror's  sword 
Pierce  mind,  as  heart,  in  this  proud  year  ? 

O,  dream  it  not  ! 
It  sounds  a  false,  blaspheming  word, 
Begot  and  born  of  moral  fear, 

And  ill-begot. 

To  leave  the  world  a  name  is  nought : 
To  leave  a  name  for  glorious  deeds 


144  SAMUEL  LAMAN  BLANCHARD. 

And  works  of  love, 
A  name  to  waken  lightning  thought 
And  fire  the  soul  of  him  who  reads, 

This  tells  above. 
Napoleon  sinks  to-day  before 
The  ungilded  shrine,  the  single  soul 

Of  Washington  : 
Truth's  name  alone  shall  man  adore 
Long  as  the  waves  of  Time  shall  roll 

Henceforward  on  ! 

My  countrymen  !  my  words  are  weak  : 
My  health  is  gone,  my  soul  is  dark. 

My  heart  is  chill ; 
Yet  would  I  fain  and  fondly  seek 
To  see  you  borne  in  freedom's  bark 

O'er  ocean  still. 
Beseech  your  God  !  and  bide  your  hour  ! 
He  can  not,  will  not  long  be  dumb  : 

Even  now  his  tread 
Is  heard  o'er  earth  with  coming  power; 
And  coming  (trust  me  !)  it  will  come, — 

Else  were  He  dead. 


SA^IUEL   LAMAN    BLANCHARD. 
1803—1845. 


NELL  G WYNNE-' S  LO OKING- GLASS. 

Glass  antique  !  'twixt  thee  and  Nell 

Draw  we  here  a  parallel  ! 

She  like  thee  was  forced  to  bear 

All  reflections,  foul  or  fair. 

Thou  art  deep  and  bright  within, — 
Depths  as  bright  belong'd  to  Gwynne  ; 
Thou  art  very  frail  as  well, 
Frail  as  flesh  is, — so  was  Nell. 


SAMUEL  LAMAN  BLANCHARD.  145 

Thou,  her  glass,  art  silver-lined, — 
She  too  had  a  silver  mind ; 
Thine  is  fresh  to  this  far  day, — 
Hers  till  death  ne'er  vi^ore  away  : 

Thou  dost  to  thy  surface  win 

Wandering  glances, — so  did  Gwynne  ; 

Eyes  on  thee  long  love  to  dwell, — 

So  men's  eyes  would  do  on  Nell. 

Life-like  forms  in  thee  are  sought, — 

Such  the  forms  the  Actress  wrought; 

Truth  unfailing  rests  in  you, — 

Nell,  whate'er  she  was,  was  true  : 
Clear  as  virtue,  dull  as  sin, 
Thou  art  oft, — as  oft  was  Gwynne  ; 
Breathe  on  thee,  and  drops  will  swell, — 
Bright  tears  dimm'd  the  eyes  of  Nell. 

Thine's  a  frame  to  charm  the  sight, — 
Framed  was  she  to  give  delight ; 
Waxen  forms  here,  truly,  show 
Charles  above  and  Nell  below 

(But  between  them,  chin  with  chin, 

Stuart  stands  as  low  as  Gwynne), 

Pair'd  yet  parted, — mean'd  to  tell 

Charles  was  opposite  to  Nell. 

Round  the  glass,  wherein  her  face 
Smiled  so  oft,  her  Arms  we  trace  : 
Thou,  her  mirror,  hast  the  pair — 
Lion  here  and  leopard  there. 

She  had  part  in  these  :   akin 

To  the  lion-heart  was  Gwynne  ; 

And  the  leopard's  beauty  fell. 

With  its  spots,  to  bounding  Nell. 

Oft  inspected,  ne'er  seen  through, 
Thou  art  firm,  if  brittle  too  : 
II.— 10 


146  ROBERT   STEPHEN   HAWKER. 

So  her  will,  on  good  intent, 
Might  be  broken,  never  bent. 

What  the  glass  was  when  therein 

Beam'd  the  face  of  glad  Nell  Gwynne 

Was  that  face  by  beauty's  spell 

To  the  honest  soul  of  Nell. 

ROBERT   STEPHEN    HAWKER. 

1804—1875. 


IS  HA   CHERIOTH. 

They  say  his  sin  was  dark  and  deep, 

Men  shudder  at  his  name  ; 
They  spurn  at  me  because  I  weep, 

They  call  my  sorrow  shame. 

I  know  not !     I  remember  well 

Our  city's' native  street, 
The  path,  the  olive  trees,  the  dell 

Where  Cherioth's  daughters  meet : 

And  there,  where  clustering  vineyards  rest 

And  palms  look  forth  above. 
He  kindled  in  my  maiden  breast 

The  glory  of  his  love. 

He  left  me, — but  with  holier  thought. 

Bound  for  a  mightier  scene  : 
In  proud  Capernaum's  path  he  sought 

The  noble  Nazarene. 

They  tell  of  treachery,  bought  and  sold 
(Perchance  their  words  be  truth)  ; 

I  only  see  the  scenes  of  old  ; 
I  hear  his  voice  in  youth. 

And  I  will  sit,  as  Rizpah  sate. 
Where  life  and  hope  are  fled  : 


ROBERT    STEPHEN    HAWKER.  147 

I  sought  him  not  in  happier  state, — 
I  will  not  leave  my  Dead. 

No  !   I  must  weep,  though  all  around 

Be  hatred  and  despair  : 
One  sigh  shall  soothe  this  fatal  ground, — 

A  Cherioth  maiden's  prayer. 

THE  WAIL  OF  THE  CORNISH  MOTHER. 

They  say  'tis  a  sin  to  sorrow, 

That  what  God  doth  is  best : 
But  'tis  only  a  month  to-morrow 

I  buried  it  from  my  breast. 

I  know  it  should  be  a  pleasure 

Your  child  to  God  to  send  : 
But  mine  was  a  precious  treasure 

To  me  and  to  my  poor  friend. 

I  thought  it  would  call  me  Mother, 

The  very  first  words  it  said  : 
O,  I  never  can  love  another 

Like  the  blessed  babe  that's  dead. 

Well !  God  is  its  own  dear  Father  ; 

It  was  carried  to  church,  and  bless'd ; 
And  our  Saviour's  arms  will  gather 

Such  children  to  their  rest. 

I  will  make  my  best  endeavour 

That  my  sins  may  be  forgiven ; 
I  will  serve  God  more  than  ever : 

To  meet  my  child  in  heaven. 

I  will  check  this  foolish  sorrow, 

For  what  God  doth  is  best — 
But  O,  'tis  a  month  to-morrow 

I  buried  it  from  my  breast ! 


148  SIR   WILLIAM   ROWAN   HAMILTON. 

SARAH    FLOWER    ADAMS. 

1805 — 1849. 


THE  OLIVE  BOUGHS. 

They  bear  the  hero  from  the  fight,  dying ; 

But  the  foe  is  flying  : 
They  lay  him  down  beneath  the  shade 
By  the  ohve  branches  made  : 

The  olive  boughs  are  sighing. 

He  hears  the  wind  among  the  leaves,  dying 

But  the  foe  is  flying  : 
He  hears  the  voice  that  used  to  be 
When  he  sat  beneath  the  tree  : 

The  olive  boughs  are  sighing. 

Comes  the  mist  around  his  brow,  dying  ; 

But  the  foe  is  flying : 
Comes  that  form  of  peace  so  fair, — 
Stretch  his  hands  unto  the  air  : 

The  olive  boughs  are  sighing. 

Fadeth  life  as  fadeth  day,  dying  ; 

But  the  foe  is  flying  : 
There's  an  urn  beneath  the  shade 
By  the  olive  branches  made  : 

The  olive  boughs  are  sighing. 

SIR   WILLIAM    ROWAN    HAMILTON. 
1805—1865. 


A  PRAYER. 


O  brooding  Spirit  of  Wisdom  and  of  Love  ! 
Whose  mighty  wings  even  now  o'ershadow  me,- 
Absorb  me  in  thine  own  immensity. 
And  raise  me  far  my  finite  self  above  ! 
Purge  vanity  away,  and  the  weak  care 


THOMAS   WADE.  149 

That  name  or  fame  of  me  may  widely  spread  ; 

And  the  deep  wish  keep  burning  in  their  stead 

Thy  bhssful  influence  afar  to  bear, 

Or  see  it  borne  !     Let  no  desire  of  ease, 

No  lack  of  courage,  faith,  or  love,  delay 

Mine  own  steps  on  that  high  thought-paven  way 

In  which  my  soul  her  clear  commission  sees  : 

Yet  with  an  equal  joy  let  me  behold 

Thy  chariot  o'er  that  way  by  others  roll'd  ! 


THOMAS   WADE. 

1805—1876. 


THE  NET-BRAIDERS. 

Within  a  low-thatch'd  hut,  built  in  a  lane 

Whose  narrow  pathway  tends  toward  the  ocean, 

A  solitude  which,  save  of  some  rude  swain 

Or  fisherman,  doth  scarce  know  human  motion, — 

Or  of  some  silent  poet  to  the  main 
Straying,  to  offer  infinite  devotion 

To  God  in  the  free  universe, — there  dwelt 

Two  women  old,  to  whom  small  store  was  dealt 

Of  the  world's  mis-named  good,  mother  and  child. 
Both  aged  and  mateless.     These  two  life  sustain'd 

By  braiding  fishing-nets  ;  and  so  beguil'd 

Time  and  their  cares,  and  little  e'er  complain'd 

Of  Fate  or  Providence  :   resign'd  and  mild, 

Whilst  day  by  day,  for  years,  their  hour-glass  rain'd 

Its  trickling  sand,  to  track  the  wing  of  Time, 

They  toil'd  in  peace  :  and  much  there  was  sublime 

In  their  obscure  contentment  :   of  mankind 

They  little  knew,  or  reck'd ;  but  for  their  being 

They  bless'd  their  Maker,  with  a  simple  mind  ; 
And  in  the  constant  gaze  of  his  all-seeing 


I50  THOMAS   WADE. 

Eye,  to  his  poorest  creatures  never  blind, 

Deeming  tliey  dwelt,  they  bore  their  sorrows  fleeing, 
Glad  still  to  live,  but  not  afraid  to  die. 
In  calm  expectance  of  Eternity. 

And  since  I  first  did  greet  those  braiders  poor, 

If  ever  I  behold  fair  women's  cheeks 
Sin-pale  in  stately  mansions,  where  the  door 

Is  shut  to  all  but  Pride,  my  cleft  heart  seeks 
For  refuge  in  my  thoughts, — which  then  explore 

That  pathway  lone  near  which  the  wild  sea  breaks  : 
And  to  Imagination's  humble  eyes 
That  hut,  with  all  its  want,  is  Paradise. 


NYMPHS. 

Beautiful  Things  of  Old  !  why  are  ye  gone  for  ever 
Out  of  the  earth  ?     O,  why  ? 
Dryad  and  Oread,  and  ye,  Nereids  blue  ! 
Whose  presence  woods  and  hills  and  sea-rocks  knew. 
Ye  have  pass'd  from  Faith's  dim  eye. 
And  save  by  poet's  lip  your  names  are  honour'd  never. 

The  sun  on  the  calm  sea  sheddeth  a  golden  glory. 
The  rippling  waves  break  whitely. 
The  sands  are  level  and  the  shingle  bright. 
The  green  cliffs  v/ear  the  pomp  of  heaven's  light, 
And  sea-weeds  idle  lightly 
Over  the  rocks  ;  but  ye  appear  not.  Dreams  of  Story  ! 

Nymphs  of  the  Sea  !     Faith's  heart  hath  fled  from  ye — liath 
fled; 

Ye  are  her  boasted  scorn  ; 
Save  to  the  poet's  soul,  the  sculptor's  thought. 
The  painter's  fancy,  ye  are  now  as  nought : 
Mute  is  old  Triton's  horn, 
And  with  it  half  the  voice  of  the  Old  World  is  dead. 


JOHN   STERLING.  151 

Our  creeds  are  not  less  vain  ;  our  sleeping  life  still  dreams ; 
The  present,  like  the  past, 
Passes  in  joy  and  sorrow,  love  and  shame ; 
Truth  dwells  as  deep  ;  wisdom  is  yet  a  name ; 
Life  still  to  death  flies  fast ; 
And  the  same  shrouded  light  from  the  dark  future  gleams. 

Spirits  of  vale  and  hill,  of  river  and  of  ocean, — 
Ye  thousand  deities  ! 
Over  the  earth  be  president  again  ; 
And  dance  upon  the  mountain  and  the  main 
In  view  of  mortal  eyes  : 
Love  us,  and  be  beloved,  with  the  Old  Time's  devotion  ! 


JOHN    STERLING. 

1806— 1844. 


D^DALUS. 


Wail  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest ! 

All  that  is  tuneful  in  air  or  wave  ! 
Shapes  whose  beauty  is  truest  and  rarest, 

Haunt  with  your  lamps  and  spells  his  grave  ! 

Statues  !  bend  your  heads  in  sorrow  : 

Ye  that  glance  amid  ruins  old, 
That  know  not  a  past  nor  expect  a  morrow, 

On  many  a  moonlight  Grecian  wold. 

By  sculptured  cave  and  speaking  river, 
Thee,  Daedalus  !  oft  the  Nymphs  recall ; 

The  leaves  with  a  sound  of  winter  quiver, 
Murmur  thy  name,  and  withering  fall. 

Yet  are  thy  visions  in  soul  the  grandest 
Of  all  that  crowd  on  the  tear-dimm'd  eye. 

Though,  Daedalus  !  thou  no  more  commandest 
New  stars  to  that  ever  widening  sky. 


152  JOHN   STERLING. 

Ever  thy  phantoms  arise  before  us, 
Our  loftier  brothers,  but  one  in  blood ; 

By  bed  and  table  they  lord  it  o'er  us, 
With  looks  of  beauty  and  words  of  good. 

Calmly  they  show  us  mankind  victorious 
O'er  all  that  is  aimless,  blind,  and  base  ; 

Their  presence  has  made  our  nature  glorious, 
Unveiling  our  night's  illumined  face. 

Thy  toil  has  won  them  a  god-like  quiet; 

Thou  hast  wrought  their  path  to  a  lovely  sphere ; 
Their  eyes  to  peace  rebuke  our  riot 

And  shape  us  a  home  of  refuge  here. 

For  D^dalus  breathed  in  them  his  spirit; 

In  them  their  sire  his  beauty  sees  : 
We  too,  a  younger  brood,  inherit 

The  gifts  and  blessings  bestow'd  on  these. 

But  ah  !  their  wise  and  graceful  seeming 
Recalls  the  more  that  the  Sage  is  gone  : 

Weeping  we  wake  from  deceitful  dreaming 
And  find  our  voiceless  chamber  lone. 

Dasdalus  !  thou  from  the  twilight  fleest 

Which  thou  with  visions  hast  made  so  bright ; 

And  when  no  more  those  shapes  thou  seest, 
Wanting  thine  eye  they  lose  their  light. 

Even  in  the  noblest  of  IMan's  creations, 
Those  fresh  worlds  round  this  old  of  ours, 

When  the  Seer  is  gone,  the  orphan'd  nations 
See  but  the  tombs  of  perish'd  powers. 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  Earth  and  Ocean  ! 

Stars  and  Sun  !  lament  for  him  ; 
Ages  !  quake  in  strange  commotion ; 

All  ye  realms  of  Life  !  be  dim  ! 


WILLIAM   GILMORE   SIMMS.  1 53 

Wail  for  Diedalus  !  awful  Voices 

From  earth's  deep  centre  mankind  appal. 

Seldom  ye  sound,  and  then  Death  rejoices  : 
For  he  knows  that  then  the  Mightiest  fall. 


WILLIAM    GILMORE   SIMMS. 
1806 — 1870. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 

Not  in  the  sky, 

Where  it  was  seen, 

Nor  on  the  white  tops  of  the  glistening  wave, 

Nor  in  the  mansions  of  the  hidden  deep 

(Though  green 

And  beautiful  its  caves  of  mystery) 

Shall  the  bright  watcher  have 

A  place,  and  as  of  old  high  station  keep. 

Gone  !  gone  ! 

O,  never  more  to  cheer 

The  mariner  who  holds  his  course  alone 

On  the  Atlantic,  through  the  weary  night 

When  the  stars  turn  to  watchers  and  do  sleep, 

Shall  it  appear. 

With  the  sweet  fixedness  of  certain  light 

Down-shining  on  the  shut  eyes  of  the  deep. 

Vain  !  vain  ! 

Hopeful  most  idly  then  shall  he  look  forth. 

That  mariner  from  his  bark. 

Howe'er  the  North 

Doth  raise  his  certain  lamp  when  tempests  lower, 

He  sees  no  more  that  perish'd  light  again  ; 

And  gloomier  grows  the  hour 

Which  may  not,  through  the  thick  and  crowding  dark, 

Restore  that  lost  and  loved  One  to  lier  tower. 


154  WILLIAM   GILMORE    SIMMS. 

He  looks, — the  shepherd  on  Chaldea's  hills 

Tending  his  flocks, — 

And  wonders  the  rich  beacon  doth  not  blaze, 

Gladdening  his  gaze, 

And  from  his  dreary  watch  along  the  rocks 

Guiding  him  safely  home  through  perilous  ways. 

How  stands  he  in  amaze. 

Still  wondering  as  the  drowsy  silence  fills 

The  sorrowful  scene  and  every  hour  distils 

Its  leaden  dews  !  how  chafes  he  at  the  night, 

Still  slow  to  bring  the  expected  and  SAv.eet  light 

So  natural  to  his  sight  ! 

And  lone. 

Where  its  first  splendours  shone. 

Shall  be  that  pleasant  company  of  stars  : 

How  should  they  know  that  death 

Such  perfect  beauty  mars  ? 

And,  like  the  earth,  its  common  bloom  and  breath, 

Fallen  from  on  high. 

Their  lights  grow  blasted  by  its  touch,  and  die, — 

All  their  concerted  springs  of  harmony 

Snapp'd  rudely,  and  the  generous  music  gone. 

A  strain,  a  mellow  strain 

Of  wailing  sweetness,  fiU'd  the  earth  and  sky  : 
The  stars  lamenting  in  unborrow'd  pain 
That  one  of  the  Selected  Ones  must  die. 
Must  vanish,  when  most  lovely,  from  the  rest ! 
Alas  !  'tis  evermore  the  destiny  : 
The  hope  heart-cherish'd  is  the  soonest  lost ; 
The  flower  first  budded  soonest  feels  the  frost  : 
Are  not  the  shortest-lived  still  loveliest? 
And,  like  the  pale  star  shooting  down  the  sky. 
Look  they  not  ever  brightest  when  they  fly 
The  desolate  home  they  bless'd  ? 


NATHANIEL    PARKER    WILLIS,  I  55 

NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 

1S07— 1867. 


TWO   WOMEN. 
The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway, 

'Twas  near  the  twilight-tide, 
And  slowly  there  a  Lady  fair 

Was  walking  in  her  pride  : 
Alone  walk'd  she  ;   but  viewlessly 

Walk'd  spirits  at  her  side. 

Peace  charm'd  the  street  beneath  her  feet, 
And  lionour  charm'd  the  air ; 

And  all  astir  look'd  kind  on  her, 
And  call'd  her  good  as  fair  : 

For  all  God  ever  gave  to  her 
She  kept  with  chary  care. 

She  kept  with  care  her  beauties  rare 

From  lovers  warm  and  true, 
For  her  heart  was  cold  to  all  but  gold, 

And  the  rich  came  not  to  woo  : 
But  honour'd  well  are  charms  to  sell. 

If  priests  the  selling  do. 

Now  walking  there  was  One  more  fair, 

A  slight  Girl,  lily  pale  ; 
And  she  had  unseen  company 

To  make  the  spirit  quail  : 
'Twixt  Want  and  Scorn  she  walk'd  forlorn 

And  nothing  could  avail. 

No  mercy  now  can  clear  her  brow 
For  this  world's  peace  to  pray  : 

For  as  love's  wild  prayer  dissolved  in  air, 
Her  woman's  heart  gave  way  : 

But  the  sin  forgiven  by  Christ  in  Heaven 
By  man  is  cursed  alway. 


156  HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

1807— 1882. 


THE  ARROW  AND   THE  SONG. 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  au-  ; 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  : 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air  ; 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  : 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song  ? 

Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke  ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

THE  LIGHT   OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon; 

And  sinking  silently. 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love. 
The  star  of  love  and  dreams  ? 

O  no !  from  that  blue  tent  above 
A  hero's  armour  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise 
When  I  behold  afar, 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  1 57 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 
The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0  star  of  strength  !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain  ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars  : 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquer'd  will : 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possess'd. 

And  thou  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  brief  psalm  ! 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm  ! 

O,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this  ! 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long. 
Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

THE    CUMBERLAND. 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop  of  war  ; 

And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 

The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past. 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  South  uprose 
A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke  ; 


15S  HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW. 

And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 

To  try  the  force 

Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 
Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort  ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death 

With  fiery  breath 

From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 
Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  : 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate. 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 

From  each  iron  scale 

Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain  ; 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies, — 
*'  It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield." 

And  the  whole  air  peal'd 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black. 
She  crush'd  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  : 
Down  went  the  Cumberland,  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death 

And  the  cannon's  breath 

For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay. 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast-head. 

Lord  !  how  beautiful  was  thy  day  : 

Every  waft  of  the  air 

Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  Dead. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  I  59 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 
Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream  ; 
Ho  !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these 
Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 

Shall  be  one  again, 

And  without  a  seam  ! 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 
As  through  an  Alpine  village  pass'd 
A  youth  who  bore,  'mid  snow  and  ice, 
A  banner  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior  ! 

His  brow  was  sad,  his  eye  beneath 
Flash'd  like  a  falchion  from  its  sheath  ; 
And  like  a  silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue — 
Excelsior  ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright ; 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone  : 
And  from  his  lips  escaped  a  groan — 
Excelsior  ! 

"  Try  not  the  Pass  !  "  the  old  man  said  ; 

"  Dark  lowers  the  tempest  over-head, 
The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  !  " 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied — 
Excelsior  ! 

"  O  stay  !  "  the  maiden  said,  "  and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast  !  " 
A  tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye  ; 
But  still  he  answer'd,  with  a  sigh, 
Excelsior  ! 


l6o  HENRY   WADS  WORTH   LONGFELLOW, 

"  Beware  the  pine-tree's  withered  branch  ! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche  !  " 
This  was  the  peasant's  last  Good-night : 
A  voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior  ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  St.  Bernard 
Utter'd  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 
A  voice  cried  through  the  startled  air  — 
Excelsior  ! 

A  traveler,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 
Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior  ! 

There,  in  the  twilight  cold  and  grey. 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay  ; 
And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 
A  voice  fell  like  a  falling  star — 
Excelsior! 

THE  RAINY  DA  V. 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall  : 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

My  life  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary  ; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary  ; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  past. 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast. 
And  the  days  are  dark  and  dreary. 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW.  l6l 

Be  still,  sad  heart !  and  cease  repining  : 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all  : 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 

CHILDREN. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play  : 
And  the  questions  that  perplex'd  me 

Have  vanish'd  quite  away. 

Ye  open  the  Eastern  windows 

That  look  toward  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine, 
In  your  thoughts  the  brooklets  flow  : 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah !  what  would  the  world  be  to  us, 

If  the  children  were  no  more  ? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  harden'd  into  wood, — 

That  to  the  world  are  children  : 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 
And  whisper  in  my  ear 
II.— II 


J  62  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 
In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 

For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 

And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 
When  compared  with  your  caresses 

And  the  gladness  of  your  looks  ? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 

That  ever  were  sung  or  said : 
For  ye  are  living  poems, 

And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 

JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 


IN  SCHOOL-DAYS. 
Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road, 

A  ragged  beggar,  sunning  : 
Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow. 

And  blackberry  vines  are  running. 

\i      '^iJ  Within  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 

'•W             ~  Deep-scarr'd  by  raps  official ; 

,          "  y  The  warping  floor,  the  batter'd  seats, 

"^  O-f-v  -pj^g  jack-knife's  carved  initial ; 

The  charcoal  frescoes  on  its  wall ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school. 

Went  storming  out  to  playing. 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 
Shone  over  it  at  setting ; 

Lit  up  its  Western  window  panes 
And  low  eaves  icy  fretting. 

It  touch'd  the  tangled  golden  curls. 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving. 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  163 

Of  One  who  still  her  steps  delay'd 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 

Her  childish  favour  singled, 
His  cap  puU'd  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled. 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 

To  right  and  left,  he  linger'd, 
As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-check'd  apron  finger'd. 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 

The  soft  hand's  light  caressing  ; 
And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 

As  if  a  fault  confessing  : 

"  I'm  sorry  that  I  spell'd  the  word ; 
I  hate  to  go  above  you. 
Because  "  (the  brown  eyes  lower  fell), 
"  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you." 

Still  memory  to  a  grey-hair'd  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing  : 

Dear  girl !  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing. 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school, 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss. 

Like  her, — because  they  love  him. 


TELLING    THE  BEES. 

Here  is  the  place  :  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 


1 64  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barr'd, 

And  the  poplars  tall, 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle  yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall. 

There  are  the  bee-hives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed  o'er-run, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 

And  the  same  brook  sings,  of  a  year  ago. 

There's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  Farm. 

I  mind  me  how,  with  a  lover's  care. 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brush'd  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And  cool'd  at  the  brookside  my  brow  and  throat. 

Since  we  parted  a  month  had  pass'd, — 

To  love  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  look'd  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now, — the  slant-wise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sun-down's  blaze  on  her  window-pane. 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before, 

The  house  and  the  trees. 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door, — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 


JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  165 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling  I  listen'd  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  One 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go. 

Then  I  said  to  myself — My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  Dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away. 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sang  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 
In  my  ear  sounds  on  : 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees  !  fly  not  hence  ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  " 

ICHABOD. 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  grey  hairs  gone 

For  evermore  ! 

Revile  him  not !  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall. 

O  !  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age 

Falls  back  in  night ! 


l66  JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

Scorn  ?     Would  the  angels  laugh  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark 

From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now ; 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim 

Dishonour'd  brow  ! 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake 
A  long  lament  as  for  the  Dead 

In  sadness  make  ! 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honour'd  nought 

Save  power  remains, — 
A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  hath  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honour  dies, 

The  Man  is  dead. 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  : 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze. 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE  RIVER-PATH. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 
No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem  : 
The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew. 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew, 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER.  167 

For  from  us  ere  the  day  was  done 

The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 

We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified  : 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 

A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare  : 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  ; 

With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom  : 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 

The  river  roll'd  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod 

We  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seem'd  not  of  moon  or  sun. 

We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 

Beckon'd  our  Dear  Ones  gone  before  ; 

And  still'd  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 

The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear. 

Sudden  our  pathway  turn'd  from  night: 

The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light  ; 

Through  their  green  gates  the  sunshine  show'd, 

A  long  slant  splendour  downward  flow'd  : 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  roll'd  ; 

It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 

And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 

The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side. 

So  (pray'd  we),  when  our  feet  draw  near 
The  river  dark  with  mortal  fear. 
And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
O  Father  !  let  thy  light  break  through! 
So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide ! 
So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide ! 
So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  thy  eternal  hills  look  forth, 
And  in  thy  beckoning  Angels  know 
The  Dear  Ones  whom  we  loved  below ! 


l68  RICHARD    CHENEVIX   TRENCH. 

RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 
1807— 


THE  LENT  JE  WELS. 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was  spent : 
His  steps  at  eve  the  Rabbi  homeward  bent, 
With  homeward  thoughts  which  dwelt  upon  the  wife 
And  two  fair  children  who  consoled  his  life. 
She,  meeting  at  the  threshold,  led  him  in, 
And,  with  these  words  preventing,  did  begin  : — 
"  Ever  rejoicing  at  your  wish'd  return. 

Yet  am  I  most  so  now  :  for  since  this  morn 

I  have  been  much  perplex'd  and  sorely  tried 

Upon  one  point  which  you  shall  now  decide. 

Some  years  ago,  a  friend  into  my  care 

Some  jewels  gave, — rich  precious  gems  they  were  ; 

But  having  given  them  in  my  charge,  this  friend 

Did  afterward  nor  come  for  them,  nor  send, 

But  left  them  in  my  keeping  for  so  long 

That  now  it  almost  seems  to  me  a  wrong 

That  he  should  suddenly  arrive  to-day, 

To  take  those  jewels  which  he  left  away. 

"What  think  you  ?     Shall  I  freely  yield  them  back, 

And  with  no  murmuring  ? — so  henceforth  to  lack 

Those  gems  myself,  which  I  had  learn'd  to  see 

Almost  as  mine  for  ever,  mine  in  fee." 

"  What  question  can  be  here  ?     Your  own  true  heart 
Must  needs  advise  you  of  the  only  part : 
That  may  be  claim'd  again  which  was  but  lent. 
And  should  be  yielded  with  no  discontent ; 
Nor  surely  can  we  find  herein  a  wrong, 
That  it  was  left  us  to  enjoy  so  long." 

"  Good  is  the  word !  "  she  answer'd  :   "  may  v/e  now 
And  evermore  that  it  is  good  allow !" 
And,  rising,  to  an  inner  chamber  led  ; 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE.  169 

And  there  she  show'd  him,  stretch'd  upon  one  bed, 
Two  children  pale.     And  he  the  jewels  knew 
Which  God  had  lent  him  and  resumed  anew. 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

1809 — 1849. 


THE  BELLS. 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells, 
Silver  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight : 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  bells, 
Golden  bells  ! 
What  a  world  of  happiness  their  harmony  fortells  ! 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight  ! 
From  the  molten-golden  notes. 

And  all  in  tune. 
What  a  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon  ! 
O,  from  out  the  sounding  cells 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells  ! 
How  it  swells  ! 
How  it  dwells 


I/O  EDGAR   ALLAN   POE. 

On  the  future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells  ! 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells, 
Brazen  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror  now  their  turbulency  tells  ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek 
Out  of  tune. 
In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavour, 
Now,  now  to  sit  or  never 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
O  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  despair  ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air  ! 
Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging, 
And  the  clanging. 
How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  car  distinctly  tells, 
In  the  jangling, 
And  the  wrangling, 


EDGAR   ALLAN   POE.  I/I 

How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the   sinking  or  the   swelling  in  the  anger  of  the 
bells, — 

Of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Iron  bells  ! 
What  a  world  ofsolemn  thought  their  monody  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night 
How  we  shiver  with  affright  * 

At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone  ! 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people  (ah  !  the  people. 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone. 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone), 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman. 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human, 

They  are  Ghouls  : 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls. 
Rolls, 
A  pasan  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells  ; 
And  he  dances,  and  he  yells, 
Keeping  time,  time,  time. 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme 


1/2  EDGAR    ALLAN    POE. 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells  ! 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells, — 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 
In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 
To  the  rolling  of  the  bells. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells. 
To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells. 
Bells,  bells,  bells, — 
To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 


TO  HELEN. 

Helen  !  thy  beauty  is  to  me 

Like  those  Nicean  barks  of  yore 
That  gently  o'er  a  perfumed  sea 
The  weary  way-worn  wanderer  bore 
To  his  own  native  shore. 

On  desperate  seas  long  wont  to  roam. 
Thy  hyacinth  hair,  thy  classic  face. 

Thy  Naiad  airs,  have  brought  me  home 

To  the  glory  that  was  Greece 

And  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome. 

Lo !  in  your  brilliant  window-niche 
How  statue-like  I  see  thee  stand, 

The  agate  lamp  within  thy  hand  ! 

Ah,  Psych^  !  from  the  regions  which 
Are  holy  land. 


OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES.  1/3 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES. 
1809 — 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

This  is  the  Ship  of  Pearl  which  (poets  feign) 

Sails  the  unshadovv'd  main, 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  Sea-Maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl  : 

Wreck'd  is  the  Ship  of  Pearl ; 

And  every  chamber'd  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  reveal'd  : 
Its  iris'd  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unseal'd. 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still  as  the  spiral  grew 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretch'd  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  Sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  borne 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings 


174  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul ! 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll  : 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past  ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  ! 


ALFRED    TENNYSON. 


TITHONUS. 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall, 

The  vapours  weep  their  burthen  to  the  ground, 

Man  comes  and  tills  the  field  and  lies  beneath, 

And  after  many  a  summer  dies  the  swan. 

Me  only  cruel  immortality 

Consumes  :  I  wither  slowly  in  thine  arms, 

Here  at  the  quiet  limit  of  the  world, 

A  white-hair'd  shadow  roaming  like  a  dream 

The  ever-silent  spaces  of  the  East, 

Far-folded  mists,  and  gleaming  halls  of  Morn. 

Alas  for  this  grey  shadow,  once  a  man, 

So  glorious  in  his  beauty  and  thy  choice, 

Who  madest  him  thy  chosen,  that  he  seem'd 

To  his  great  heart  none  other  than  a  God  ! 

I  ask'd  thee — "  Give  me  immortality  !  " 

Then  didst  thou  grant  mine  asking  with  a  smile, 

Like  wealthy  men  who  care  not  how  they  give. 

But  thy  strong  Hours,  indignant,  w^ork'd  their  wills. 

And  beat  me  down,  and  marr'd  and  wasted  me  ; 

And,  though  they  could  not  end  me,  left  me  maim'd 

To  dwell  in  presence  of  immortal  youth. 

Immortal  Age  beside  imm.ortal  Youth, 

And  all  I  was  in  ashes.     Can  thy  love, 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  1/5 

Thy  beauty,  make  amends  ?  though  even  now 

Close  over  us  the  silver  star,  thy  guide, 

Shines  in  those  tremulous  eyes  that  fill  with  tears 

To  hear  me.     Let  me  go !     Take  back  thy  gift ! 

Why  should  a  man  desire  in  any  way 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men, 

Or  pass  beyond  the  goal  of  ordinance 

"Where  all  should  pause,  as  is  most  meet  for  all  ? 

A  soft  air  fans  the  cloud  apart ;  there  comes 
A  glimpse  of  that  dark  world  where  I  was  born. 
Once  more  the  old  mysterious  glimmer  steals 
From  thy  pure  brows,  and  from  thy  shoulders  pure, 
And  bosom  beating  with  a  heart  renew'd. 
Thy  cheek  begins  to  redden  through  the  gloom  ; 
Thy  sweet  eyes  brighten  slowly  close  to  mine 
Ere  yet  they  blind  the  stars,  and  the  wild  team 
Which  love  thee,  yearning  for  thy  yoke,  arise 
And  shake  the  darkness  from  their  loosen'd  manes 
And  beat  the  twilight  into  flakes  of  fire. 

Lo  !  ever  thus  thou  growest  beautiful 

In  silence  ;  then,  before  thine  answer  given, 

Departest,  and  thy  tears  are  on  my  cheek. 

Why  wilt  thou  ever  scare  me  with  thy  tears. 
And  make  me  tremble  lest  a  saying  learn'd 
In  days  far  off,  on  that  dark  earth,  be  true  ? 
"  The  Gods  themselves  can  not  recall  their  gifts." 

Ay  me  !  ay  me  !  with  what  another  heart, 

In  days  far  off,  and  with  what  other  eyes 

I  used  to  watch  (if  I  be  he  that  watch'd) 

The  lucid  outline  forming  round  thee  ;  saw 

The  dim  curls  kindle  into  sunny  rings  ; 

Changed  with  thy  mystic  change,  and  felt  my  blood 

Glow  with  the  glow  that  slowly  crimson'd  all 

Thy  presence  and  thy  portals, — while  I  lay, 


1/6  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

Mouth,  forehead,  eyelids,  growing  dewy-warm 
With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd, 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet : 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion  like  a  mist  rose  into  towers. 

Yet  hold  me  not  for  ever  in  thine  East  ! 
How  can  my  nature  longer  mix  with  thine  ? 
Coldly  thy  rosy  shadows  bathe  me,  cold 
Are  all  my  lights,  and  cold  my  wrinkled  feet 
Upon  thy  glimmering  thresholds,  when  the  steam 
Floats  up  from  those  dim  fields  about  the  homes 
Of  happy  men  that  have  the  power  to  die, 
And  grassy  barrows  of  the  happier  dead. 
Release  me  and  restore  me  to  the  ground  ! 
Thou  seest  all  things,  thou  w^ilt  see  my  grave  : 
Thou  wilt  renew  thy  beauty  morn  by  morn  ; 
I,  earth  in  earth,  forget  these  empty  courts 
And  thee  returning  on  thy  silver  wheels. 


MARIANA 

"  IN   THE   MOATED   GRANGR." 

With  blackest  moss  the  flower  plots 
Were  thickly  crusted,  one  and  all; 
The  rusted  nails  fell  from  the  knots 
That  held  the  peach  to  the  garden  wall. 
The  broken  sheds  look'd  sad  and  strange, 
Unlifted  was  the  clinking  latch, 
Weeded  and  worn  the  ancient  thatch 
Upon  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said — "  My  life  is  dreary. 
He  cometh  not  :  "  she  said. 

She  said — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


ALFRED   TENNYSON.  1/7 

Her  tears  fell  with  the  dews  at  even, 
Her  tears  fell  ere  the  dews  were  dried  ; 
She  could  not  look  on  the  sweet  heaven 
Either  at  morn  or  eventide. 
After  the  flitting  of  the  bats, 
When  thickest  dark  did  trance  the  sky, 
She  drew  her  casement  curtain  by, 
And  glanced  athwart  the  glooming  flats. 

She  only  said—"  The  night  is  dreary, 
He  Cometh  not :  "  she  said. 

She  said — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

Upon  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Waking,  she  heard  the  night  fowl  crow  ; 
The  cock  sung  out  an  hour  ere  light ; 
From  the  dark  fen  the  oxen's  low 
Came  to  her  :  without  hope  of  change, 
In  sleep  she  seem'd  to  walk  forlorn, 
Till  colds  winds  woke  the  grey-eyed  morn 
About  the  lonely  moated  grange. 

She  only  said — "  The  day  is  dreary, 

He  cometh  not  :  "  she  said. 
She  said—"  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 

I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

About  a  stone-cast  from  the  wall, 
A  sluice  with  blacken'd  waters  slept, 
And  o'er  it  many,  round  and  small, 
The  cluster'd  marish-mosses  crept. 
Hard  by  a  poplar  shook  alway. 
All  silver  green  with  gnarled  bark  : 
For  leagues  no  other  tree  did  dark 
The  level  waste,  the  rounding  grey. 

She  only  said—"  My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not  :  "  she  said. 

She  said — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
1  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

II.— 12 


1/8  ALFRED   TENNYSON. 

And  ever  when  the  moon  was  low, 
And  the  shrill  winds  were  up  and  away, 
In  the  white  curtain,  to  and  fro, 
She  saw  the  gusty  shadow  sway. 
But  when  the  moon  was  very  low. 
And  wild  winds  bound  within  their  cell, 
The  shadow  of  the  poplar  fell 
Upon  her  bed,  across  her  brow. 

She  only  said — "  The  night  is  dreary, 
He  Cometh  not :  "  she  said. 

She  said — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  I  " 

All  day  within  the  dreamy  house 
The  doors  upon  their  hinges  creak'd  ; 
The  blue  fly  sang  i'  the  pane ;  the  mouse 
Behind  the  mouldering  wainscot  shriek'd, 
Or  from  the  crevice  peer'd  about. 
Old  faces  glimmer'd  through  the  doors. 
Old  footsteps  trod  the  upper  floors, 
Old  voices  called  her  from  without. 

She  only  said — "  My  life  is  dreary, 
He  cometh  not  :  "  she  said. 

She  said — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
I  would  that  I  were  dead  !  " 

The  sparrow's  chirrup  on  the  roof. 
The  slow  clock  ticking,  and  the  sound 
Which  to  the  wooing  wind  aloof 
The  poplar  made,  did  all  confound 
Her  sense ;  but  most  she  loathed  the  hour 
When  the  thick-moted  sunbeam  lay 
Athwart  the  chambers,  and  the  day 
Was  sloping  toward  his  western  bower. 

Then  said  she — "  I  am  very  dreary, 
He  will  not  come  :  "  she  said. 

She  wept, — "  I  am  aweary,  aweary, — 
O  God,  that  I  were  dead  !  " 


ALFRED    TENNYSON.  1/9 


THE  POET'S  SONG. 

The  rain  had  fallen  ;  the  Poet  arose, 

He  pass'd  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street : 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat : 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild  swan  pause  in  her  cloud 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet. 

The  swallow  stopp'd  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipp'd  under  a  spray, 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey  ; 
And  the  nightingale  thought — "  I  have  sung  many  songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay, — 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away." 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NO  MORE. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  ; 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world, 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 

That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge, — 

So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more  ! 

Ah  !  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 


l8o  RICHARD    MONCKTON   MILNES. 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square, — 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more  ! 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death. 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 
O  death  in  life  !  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

RICHARD    MONCKTON    MILNES. 

(lord  HOUGHTON.) 


THE  BROOK-SIDE. 

I  wander'd  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill, — 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird  : 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree  ; 

I  watch'd  the  long  long  shade, 
And  as  it  grew  still  longer 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  : 
For  I  listen'd  for  a  footfall, 

I  listen'd  for  a  word, — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not, — no!  he  came  not  ; 

The  night  came  on  alone. 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one 

Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 
The  evening  wind  pass'd  by  my  check, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd, — 


RICHARD    MONCKTON   MILNES.  l8l 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind  ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, — 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind ; 
It  drew  me  nearer,  nearer  ; 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, — 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


THE    TREASURE   SHIP. 

My  heart  is  freighted  full  of  love. 

As  full  as  any  argosy. 

With  gems  below  and  gems  above, — 

And  ready  for  the  open  sea, 

For  the  wind  is  blowing  summerly  : 

Full  strings  of  Nature's  beaded  pearl, 
Sweet  tears,  composed  in  amorous  ties 
And  turkis-lockets,  that  no  churl 
Hath  fashion'd  out  inechanic-wise, 
But  all  made  up  of  thy  blue  eyes  ; 

And  girdles  wove  of  subtle  sound. 
And  thoughts  not  trusted  to  the  air, 
Of  antique  mould,  the  same  as  bound 
In  Paradise  the  primal  pair 
Before  Love's  arts  and  niceness  were  ; 

And  carcanets  of  living  sighs. 

Gums  that  have  dropp'd  from  Love's  own  stem  ; 

And  one  small  jewel  most  I  prize, 

The  darling  gaud  of  all  of  them  : 

I  wot,  so  rare  and  fine  a  gem 

Ne'er  glow'd  on  Eastern  anadem. 


l82  WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY. 

I've  cased  the  rubies  of  thy  smiles 
In  rich  and  triply-plated  gold  ; 
But  this  no  other  wealth  defiles  : 
Itself — itself  can  only  hold — 
The  stealthy  kiss  on  Maple-Wold. 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


AT    THE    CHURCH    GATE. 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They've  hush'd  the  Minster  bell ; 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She's  coming!  she's  coming  ! 

My  Lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  down-cast  : 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  pass'd. 

May  heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  Saint! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly ! 
I  will  not  enter  there 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 


WILLIAM   MAKEPEACE   THACKERAY.  1 83 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute  ! 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 


THE  AGE  OF   WISDOM. 

Ho,  pretty  Page  with  the  dimpled  chin 
That  never  has  known  the  barber's  shear ! 

All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win  : 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin  : 
Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year ! 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer, 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains 
Under  Bonnybell's  window  panes  : 

Wait  till  you  come  to  Forty  Year ! 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass. 
Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear  : 
Then  you  know  a  boy  is  an  ass. 
Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a  lass, 
Once  you  have  come  to  Forty  Year, 

Pledge  me  round  !     I  bid  ye  declare. 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  grey ! 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a  month  was  pass'd  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  were  kiss'd. 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone, 
May  pray  and  whisper,  and  we  not  list, 
Or  look  away  ;  and  never  be  miss'd 
Ere  yet  ever  a  month  is  gone. 


1 84  SIR   FRANCIS    HASTINGS   DOYLE. 

Gillian's  dead  :   God  rest  her  bier ! 

How  I  loved  her  twenty  years  syne  ! 
Marian's  married  :   but  I  sit  here, 
Alone  and  merry  at  Forty  Year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 


SIR    FRANCIS    HASTINGS    DOYLE. 


THE  PRIVATE  OF  THE  BUFFS. 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs. 

He  jested,  quaff 'd,  and  swore, — 
A  drunken  Private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  look'd  before  : 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown. 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewilder'd,  and  alone, 
A  heart  with  English  instinct  fraught 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay !  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb  ! 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame  ! 
He  only  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seem'd 

Like  dreams  to  come  and  go  ; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd. 

One  sheet  of  living  snow  ; 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  grey  soft  eddyings  hung, — 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  so  young? 


ALFRED   DOMETT.  1 85 

Yes  !  honour  calls  :  with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by. 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel ! 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed, 

Vain  those  all-shattering  guns. 
Unless  proud  England  keep  untamed 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons  ! 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring  ! 

A  man  of  mean  estate 
"Who  died  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king. 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

ALFRED    DOxMETT. 


WHAT  MATTER? 
I 
What  matter,  what  matter,  O  friend  !  though  the  sea 
In  lines  of  silvery  fire  may  slide 
O'er  the  sands  so  tawny  and  tender  and  wide, 

Murmuring  soft  as  a  bee  ? — 
No  matter  !  no  matter  !  in  sooth,  said  he  : 
But  the  sunlit  sands  and  the  silvery  play 
Are  a  truthful  smile  long  pass'd  away  : 

No  more  to  me. 

II 

What  matter,  what  matter,  dear  friend  !  can  it  be 
If  a  long  blue  stripe,  dim-swelling  and  dark 
Beneath  the  lighter  blue  headland,  may  mark 
All  of  the  town  we  can  see  ? 


1 86  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 

No  matter  !  no  matter  !  in  truth,  said  he  : 
But  the  streak,  that  fades  and  fades  as  we  part, 
Is  a  broken  voice  and  a  breaking  heart  : 
No  more  to  me. 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 

1809 — 1 86 1. 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  God  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban. 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  God  Pan, 

From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river  : 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away. 

Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  God  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flow'd  the  river  ; 
And  hack'd  and  hew'd,  as  a  great  God  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed. 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  God  Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  ! ) 

Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 

Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 

And  notch'd  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 


ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING.  1 8/ 

"  This  is  the  way,"  laugh'd  the  great  God  Pan, 

Laugh'd  while  he  sat  by  the  river, — 
"  The  only  way,  since  Gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed. 
He  blew  in  power,  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan  ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river  ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  God  Pan  ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 

Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  God  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man ! 
The  true  Gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 

As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 


A  FALSE  STEP. 

Sweet !  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart  : 
Pass  !  there's  a  world  full  of  men  ; 

And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

Thou  only  hast  stepp'd  unaware, 
(Malice  not  one  can  impute)  ; 

And  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there 
In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ? 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 
Nor  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend  : 

Put  up  thy  proud  under-lip  ! 

'Twas  merely  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


1 88  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING, 

And  yet,  peradventure,  one  day 

Thou  sitting  alone  at  the  glass, 
Remarking  the  bloom  gone  away, 

Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement  was, 

And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain, 
From  hundreds  who  flatter'd  before. 

Such  a  word  as  "  O,  not  in  the  main 

Do  I  hold  thee  less  precious,  but  more  :  " 

Thou  wilt  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part — 
"  Of  all  I  have  known  or  can  know 

I  wish  I  had  only  that  Heart 
I  trod  upon  ages  ago  ! " 

THE  SEA-MEW. 
How  joyously  the  young  Sea-Mew 
Lay  dreaming  on  the  waters  blue, 
Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  forward  shade,  the  only  one  : 
But  shadows  aye  will  man  pursue. 

Familiar  with  the  waves,  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  foam  were  he, 
His  heart  upon  the  heart  of  ocean 
Lay,  learning  all  its  mystic  motion 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea. 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye. 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  up  and  nursed 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  first. 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 

We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 

His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves  under, 

And  bound  it, — while  his  fearless  eyes 

Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise. 

As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder. 


ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING.  1 89 

We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  that  curtsey  to  the  bees, 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees, 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 

But  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who  had  seen  the  rainbow  fishes  swim  ; 
And  when  earth's  dew  ai'ound  him  lay 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray  : 
And  his  eye  waxed  sad  and  dim. 

The  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison  with  their  darksome  shade  ; 
And  droop'd  his  wing,  and  mourned  he 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea, — 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 

Then  One  her  gladsome  face  did  bring. 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring. 
In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love  : 
He  thought  it  a  strange  mournful  thing. 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves)  :  because,  alas  ! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass. 
And  with  our  touch  our  agony. 


SONNETS. 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  Princely  Heart! 

Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 

Our  ministering  two  angels  look  surprise 

On  one  another  as  they  strike  athwart 

Their  wings  in  passing.     Thou  (bethink  thee  !)  art 

A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pageantries, 


I90  ELIZABETH   BARRETT   BROWNING. 

With  gages,  from  a  hundred  brighter  eyes 
Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to  ply  thy  part 
Of  chief  musician.     What  hast  Thou  to  do 
With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at  me, 
A  poor  tired  wandering  singer,  singing  through 
The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cypress  tree  ? 
The  chrism  is  on  thine  head,  on  mine  the  dew  : 
And  Death  must  die:  the  level  where  these  agree. 


Go  from  me !     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore, 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forebore — 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  Thee,  as  the  wine 
]\Iust  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  nriyself,  he  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes  the  tears  of  two. 


Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again, 

That  thou  dost  love  me  !     Though  the  word  repeated 

Should  seem  "  a  cuckoo  song,"  as  thou  dost  treat  it, 

Remember  never  to  the  hill  or  plain, 

Valley  and  wood,  without  her  cuckoo  strain 

Comes  the  fresh  Spring  in  all  her  green  completed  ! 

Belov&d  !     I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 

By  a  doubtful  spirit's  voice,  in  that  doubt's  pain 

Cry — Speak  once  more,  thou  lovest !     Who  can  fear 

Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heaven  shall  roll ; 

Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall  crown  the  year  ? 


ROBERT   BROWNING.  I9I 

Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love  me  !  toll 
The  silver  iterance  ! — only  minding,  Dear  ! 
To  love  me  also  in  silence,  with  thy  soul. 


First  time  he  kiss'd  me,  he  but  only  kiss'd 

The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write  ; 

And  ever  since  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 

Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  "  O  list  !  " 

When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 

I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  sight 

Than  that  first  kiss.      The  second  pass'd  in  height 

The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead  and  half-miss'd. 

Half-falling  on  the  hair.      O,  beyond  meed. 

That  was  the  chrism  of  Love,  which  Love's  own  crown. 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 

The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 

In  perfect  purple  state.     Since  when  indeed 

I  have  been  proud,  and  said — My  Love  !  my  own  ! 

ROBERT    BROWNING. 
1812— 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat ; 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  Fortune  bereft  us. 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 

They  with  the  gold  to  give  doled  him  out  silver. 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allow'd  : 

How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service  ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud. 

We  that  had  loved  him  so,  follow'd  him,  honour'd  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 

Learn'd  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die  ! 

Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 


192  ROBERT   BROWNING. 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from  their  graves! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen  ; 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves. 

We  shall  march  prospering,  not  through  his  presence  ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  not  from  his  lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence. 
Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name  then  !  record  one  lost  soul  more. 
One  task  more  declined,  one  more  foot-path  untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 
One  wrong  more  for  man,  one  more  insult  to  God  ! 
Life's  night  begins  :  let  him  never  come  back  to  us  ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain. 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  the  glimmer  of  twilight, 
Never  glad  confident  morning  again. 
Best  fight  on,  well,  for  we  taught  him  ;   strike  gallantly, 
IMenace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own  ! 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge,  and  wait  us, 
Pardon'd,  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  Throne  ! 

THE  MOTIFS  KISS. 

The  moth's  kiss  first  ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 
How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  :  so  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst ! 

The  bee's  kiss  now  ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  enter'd  gay 

My  heart,  at  some  noon-day, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 

The  claim,  so  all  is  render'd  up, 

And  passively  its  shatter'd  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow  ! 


ROBERT   BROWNING.  193 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 

She  pluck'd  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think, — 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  : 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough,  and  little  cares  ; 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckon'd  unawares. 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late  then  ?  Evelyn  Hope  ! 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true. 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew, — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old. 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Eacli  was  nought  to  each — must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow-mortals — nought  beside  ? 

Kg,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  : 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
Delay'd  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet. 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  : 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 
II.-13 


194 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 

But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will- 
When,  Evelyn  Hope !  what  mean'd,  I  shall  say, 

In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 
That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 

Why  your  hair  was  amber  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red  : 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 
In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then  ; 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gain'd  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransack'd  the  ages,  spoil'd  the  climes  : 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  miss'd  or  itself  miss'd  me, — 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?     Let  us  see  ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn  !  all  the  while 

My  heart  seem'd  full  as  it  would  hold  : 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile 

And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So,  hush  !  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep  ; 

See  !  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There !  that  is  our  secret  :  go  to  sleep  ! 

You  will  wake  and  remember,  and  understand. 

NIGHT  AND  MORNING. 
I. 
The  grey  sea  and  the  long  black  land, 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low, 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow 
And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand. 

Then  a  smile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach, 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears  ; 
A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 


ROBERT   NICOLL.  195 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud  through  its  joys  and  fears 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each. 


Round  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  look'd  over  the  mountain's  rim 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 

ROBERT    NICOLL. 
1814— 1837. 


BONNIE  BESSIE   LEE. 

Bonnie  Bessie  Lee  had  a  face  fu'  o'  smiles, 
An'  mirth  round  her  ripe  lip  was  aye  dancing  slee  ; 
An'  light  was  the  footfa',  an'  winsome  the  wiles 
O'  the  flower  o'  the  parochin,  our  ain  Bessie  Lee. 

Wi'  the  bairnies  she  would  rin,  and  the  school  laddies  paik, 
And  o'er  the  broomy  braes  like  a  fairy  would  flee, 
Till  auld  hearts  grew  young  again  wi'  love  for  her  sake  : 
There  was  life  in  the  blithe  blink  o'  bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

She  grat  wi'  the  wacfu'  an'  laugh'd  wi'  the  glad ; 
An'  light  as  the  wind  'mang  the  dancers  was  she  ; 
And  a  tongue  that  could  jeer  too  the  little  limmer  had, 
Whilk  keepit  aye  her  ain  side  for  bonnie  Bessie  Lee. 

An'  she  whiles  had  a  sweetheart,  an'  sometimes  had  twa, — 

A  limmer  o'  a  lassie!  but,  atween  you  and  me, 

Her  warm  wee  bit  heartie  she  ne'er  threw  awa. 

Though  monie  a  ane  had  sought  it  frae  bonnie  Bessie  Lee, 

But  ten  years  had  gane  since  I  gazed  on  her  last, 
For  ten  years  had  parted  my  auld  hame  an'  me  ; 
And  I  said  to  mysel'  as  her  mither's  door  I  pass'd — 
"  Will  I  ever  get  anither  kiss  frae  bonnie  Bessie  Lee  ? " 


196.  ROBERT    NICOLL. 

But  Time  changes  a'  things,  the  ill-natured  loon  ! 
Were  it  ever  sae  rightly,  he'll  no  let  it  be  : 
But  I  rubbit  o'  my  een,  and  I  thought  I  would  swoon, — 
How  the  carle  had  come  roun'  about  our  ain  Bessie  Lee. 

The  wee  laughing  lassie  was  a  gude-wife  growing  auld, 
Twa  weans  at  her  apron  and  ane  on  her  knee  ; 
She  was  douce  too,  an'  wise-like, — an'  wisdom's  sae  cauld  : — 
I  would  rather  hae  the  ither  ane  than  this  Bessie  Lee. 


MENIE. 

Fu'  ripe,  ripe,  was  her  rosy  lip  ; 

An'  gowden  was  her  hair  ; 
An'  white,  white  was  her  swan-like  neek ; 

Her  een  like  starnies  were  : 
An'  raven,  raven  was  her  hair  ; 

So  like  the  snaw  her  brow  ; 
An'  the  words  that  fell  from  her  v/ee  saft  mouth 

Were  happy  words,  I  trow. 

An'  pure,  pure  was  her  maiden  heart ; 

An'  ne'er  a  thought  o'  sin 
Durst  venture  there, — an  angel  dwelt 

Its  borders  a'  within  : 
An'  fair  as  was  her  sweet  bodie, 

Yet  fairer  was  her  mind  : — 
Menie's  the  queen  amang  the  flowers, 

The  wale  o'  womankind. 

THE    GRAVE    OF  BURNS. 

By  a  kirk-yard  yett  I  stood,  while  many  enter'd  in  : 
Men  bow'd  wi'  toil  and  age,  wi'  haffets  auld  an'  thin, 
And  ithers  in  their  prime  wi'  a  bearin'  proud  an'  hie, 
An'  maidens  pure  an'  bonnie  as  the  daisies  o'  the  lea, 
An'  matrons  wrinkled  auld  wi'  lyart  heads  an'  grey, 
An'  bairns  like  things  owre  fair  for  Death  to  wede  away. 


THOMAS   OSBORNE   DAVIS.  I97 

I  stood  beside  the  yett  while  onward  still  they  went, 

The  laird  frae  out  his  ha'  an'  the  shepherd  frae  the  bent  : 

It  seem'd  a  type  o'  man  and  o'  the  grave's  domain, 

But  these  were  livin'  a'  an'  could  straight  come  forth  again. 

And  o'  the  bedral  auld  wi'  meikle  courtesie 

I  speer'd  what  it  might  mean,  an'  he  bade  me  look  an'  see. 

On  the  trodden  path  that  led  to  the  house  o'  worshiping, 
Or  before  its  open  doors,  there  stood  nae  livin'  thing ; 
But  awa  amang  the  tombs  ilk  comer  quickly  pass'd, 
An'  upon  ae  lowly  grave  ilk  seekin'  ee  was  cast : 
There  were  sabbin'  bosoms  there,  an'  proud  yet  saften'd  eyes, 
And   a   whisper   breathed   around — "  There    the    Loved   and 
Honour'd  lies  !  " 

There  was  nae  a  murmur  there,  the  deep-drawn  breath  was 

hush'd ; 
And  o'er  the  maiden's  cheek  the  tears  o'  feelin'  gush'd ; 
An'  the  bonnie  infant's  face  was  lifted  as  in  prayer ; 
An'  manhood's  brow  was  flush'd  wi'  the  thoughts  that  movin' 

were  : — 
I  stood  beside  the  grave,  and  I  gazed  upon  the  stone  : 
And  the  name  of  Robert  Burns  was  engraven  thereupon. 


THOMAS    OSBORNE    DAVIS. 

1814—1845. 


THE  WELCOME. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, — 
Come  when  you're  look'd  for,  or  come  without  warning, - 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you. 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you  ! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted ; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever; 
And  the  linnets  are  singing — True  lovers  don't  sever ! 


198  WILLIAM   BELL   SCOTT. 

I'll  pull  you  sweet  flowers  to  wear,  if  you  choose  'em  ; 
Or,  after  you've  kissed  them,  they'll  lie  on  my  bosom  ; 
I'll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  inspire  you ; 
I'll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a  tale  that  won't  tire  you. 
O  !  your  step's  like  the  rain  to  the  summer-vex'd  farmer, 
Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a  knight  without  armour  ! 
I'll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise  above  me ; 
Then  wandering  I'll  wish  you  in  silence  to  love  me. 

We'll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and  the  eyrie ; 
We'll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of  the  fairy ; 
We'll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we'll  list  to  the  river, 
Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you  can  give  her. 
O  !  she'll  whisper  you — "  Love,  as  unchangeably  beaming, 
And  trust  when  in  secret  most  tunefully  streaming  : 
Till  the  star-light  of  heaven  above  us  shall  c]uiver, 
As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  Eternity's  river." 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning, — 
Come  when  you're  look'd  for,  or  come  without  warning, — 
Kisses  and  welcome  you'll  find  here  before  you ; 
And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I'll  adore  you ! 
Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were  plighted ; 
Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was  blighted ; 
The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener  than  ever ; 
And  the  linnets  are  singing — True  lovers  don't  sever  ! 

WILLIAM    BELL    SCOTT. 


THE  NORNS  WATERING    YGGDRASILL. 

Within  the  unchanging  twilight 
Of  the  high  land  of  the  Gods 

Between  the  murmuring  fountain 
And  the  Ash-tree,  tree  of  trees. 

The  Norns,  the  terrible  Maidens, 
Forcvcrmore  come  and  sro. 


WILLIAM   BELL   SCOTT.  1 99 

Yggdrasill,  the  populous  Ash-tree 
Whose  leaves  embroider  heaven, 

Fills  all  the  grey  air  with  music  : 
To  Gods  and  to  men  sweet  sounds, 

But  speech  to  the  fine-ear'd  Maidens 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

That  way  to  their  domestead  thrones 

The  ^sir  ride  each  day. 
And  every  one  bends  to  the  saddle 

As  they  pass  beneath  the  shade  : 
Even  Odin,  the  strong  All-Father, 
Bends  to  the  beautiful  Maidens 

Who  cease  not  to  come  and  go. 

The  tempest  crosses  the  high  boughs. 

The  great  snakes  heave  below. 
The  wolf,  the  boar,  and  antler'd  harts 

Delve  at  the  life-giving  roots  ; 
But  all  of  them  fear  the  wise  Maidens, 
The  wise-hearted  Water-bearers 

Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

And  men  far  away,  in  the  night  hours 
To  the  North-wind  listening,  hear, — 

They  hear  the  howl  of  the  were-wolf, 
And  know  he  hath  felt  the  sting 

Of  the  eyes  of  the  potent  Maidens 
Who  sleeplessly  come  and  go. 

They  hear  on  the  wings  of  the  North-wind 

A  sound  as  of  three  that  sing  ; 
And  the  skald,  in  the  blae  mist  wandering 

High  on  the  midland  fell. 
Heard  the  very  words  of  the  o'ersong 

Of  the  Norns,  who  come  and  go. 

But  alas  for  the  ears  of  mortals 

Chance-hearing  that  fate-laden  song  ! 


200  WILLIAM    BELL   SCOTT. 

The  bones  of  the  skald  he  there  still  : 
For  the  speech  of  the  leaves  of  the  Tree 

Is  the  song  of  the  three  Queen-Maidens 
Who  evermore  come  and  go. 

PARTING  AND  MEETING  AGAIN 

Last  time  I  parted  from  my  Dear 
The  linnet  sang  from  the  briar-bush, 

The  throstle  from  the  dell ; 
The  stream  too  carol'd  full  and  clear, 
It  was  the  spring-time  of  the  year, 
And  both  the  linnet  and  the  thrush 

I  love  them  well 
Since  last  I  parted  from  my  Dear. 

But  when  he  came  again  to  me 
The  barley  rustled  high  and  low. 
Linnet  and  thrush  were  still ; 
Yellow'd  the  apple  on  the  tree, 
'Twas  autumn  merry  as  it  could  be, 
What  time  the  white  ships  come  and  go 

Under  the  hill  ; 
They  brought  him  back  again  to  me. 
Brought  him  safely  o'er  the  sea. 

PYGMALION. 

"  Mistress  of  Gods  and  men  !  I  have  been  thine 
From  boy  to  man,  and  many  a  myrtle  rod 
Have  I  made  grow  upon  thy  sacred  sod, 
Nor  ever  have  I  pass'd  thy  white  shafts  nine 
Without  some  votive  offering  for  the  shrine. 
Carved  beryl  or  chased  bloodstone  ; — aid  me  now ! 
And  I  will  live  to  fashion  for  thy  brow 
Heart-breaking  priceless  things  :   O,  make  her  mine." 
Venus  inclined  her  ear,  and  through  the  Stone 
Forthwith  slid  warmth  like  spring  through  sapling-stems, 


WILLIAM   JAMES   LINTON.  20I 

And  lo  !  the  eyelid  stirr'd,  beneath  had  grown 
The  tremulous  light  of  life,  and  all  the  hems 

Of  her  zoned  peplos  shook Upon  his  breast 

She  sank,  by  two  dread  gifts  at  once  oppress'd. 


ROSE-LEA  VES. 

Once  a  rose  ever  a  rose,  we  say  : 
One  we  loved  and  who  loved  us 
Remains  beloved  though  gone  from  day 
To  human  hearts  it  must  be  thus, 
The  past  is  sweetly  laid  away. 

Sere  and  seal'd  for  a  day  and  year, 
Smell  them,  dear  Christina  !  pray  : 
So  Nature  treats  its  children  dear, 
So  memory  deals  with  yesterday  : 
The  past  is  sweetly  laid  away. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  LINTON. 


BRIDAL  SONG. 


Blessed  Hours  !  approach  her  gently ; 
Peace  !  smile  on  her  excellently  ; 
Midnight  Stars  !  attend  her  pleasure  : 

Veil  thy  splendour,  Night ! 
Not  even  Love's  own  eyes  should  measure 

Love's  delight. 

Touch  life's  chords  with  lightest  finger  ; 
Echoes  sweet !  around  her  linger  ; 
By  the  love  makes  marriage  holy. 

Tame  thy  carriage,  Fate  ! 
Like  a  bridesmaid  murmuring  lowly — 

Yet  we  wait ! 


202  WILLIAM   JAMES   LINTON. 


THE  HAPPY  LAND. 

The  Happy  Land ! 

Studded  with  cheerful  homesteads,  fair  to  see, 
With  garden  grace  and  household  symmetry  : 
How  grand  the  wide-brow'd  peasant's  lordly  mien, 
The  matron's  smile  serene  ! 

O  happy,  happy  land ! 

The  happy  land  ! 

Half-hid  in  the  dewy  grass  the  mower  blithe 
Sings  to  the  day-star  as  he  whets  his  scythe  ; 
And  to  his  babes  at  eventide  again 
Carols  as  blithe  a  strain. 

O  happy,  happy  land ! 

The  happy  land ! 

Where  in  the  golden  sheen  of  autumn  eves 

The  bright-hair'd  children  play  among  the  sheaves 

Or  gather  ripest  apples  all  the  day. 

As  ruddy-cheek'd  as  they. 

O  happy,  happy  land  ! 

O  happy  land ! 

The  thin  smoke  curlcth  through  the  frosty  air ; 

The  light  smiles  from  the  windows  ;  hearken  there 

To  the  white  grandsire's  tale  of  heroes  old, 

To  flame-eyed  listeners  told  ! 

O  happy,  happy  land  ! 

O  happy,  happy  land ! 

The  tender-foliaged  alders  scarcely  shade 
Yon  loitering  lover  and  glad  blushing  maid  : 
O  happy  land  !   the  Spring  that  quickens  thee 
Is  human  liberty. 

O  happy,  happy  kind  ! 


AUBREY   THOMAS   DE   VERE.  20$ 

IPHIGENEIA   AT  AULTS. 

I  am  Achilles.     Thou  wast  hither  brought 

To  be  my  wife,  not  for  a  sacrifice. 
Greece  and  her  kings  may  stand  aside  as  nought 

To  what  Thou  art  in  my  expectant  eyes. 

Or  kings  or  Gods  :   I  too  am  heaven-born. 

I  trample  on  their  auguries  and  needs. 
Where  the  foreboding  dares  to  front  my  scorn 

Or  break  the  promise  from  my  heart  proceeds  ? 

But  thou  Beloved !  smilest  down  my  wrath 
So  able  to  protect  thee.     Who  should  harm 

Achilles'  Bride  ? — Thou  pointest  to  the  path 
Of  sacrifice,  yet  leaning  on  my  arm. 

There  is  no  need  of  words  ;  from  me  reply 

As  little  requisite  :   Thy  lightest  hand 
Guideth  me,  as  the  helm  the  ship  ;  Thine  eye 

Doth  more  than  all  the  Atridas  could  command. 

Thou  givest  life  and  love  for  Greece  and  Right  : 
I  will  stand  by  thee  lest  thou  shouldst  be  weak — 

Not  weak  of  soul. — I  will  but  hold  in  sight 

Thy  marvelous  beauty. — Here  is  She  you  seek  ! 

AUBREY   THOMAS   DE   VERE. 

1814— 


SONG. 

Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark 

And  balmiest  bud, 
To  carve  her  name  while  yet  'tis  dark 

Upon  the  wood  ! 
The  world  is  full  of  noble  tasks 

And  wreaths  hard  won  : 


2C4  AUBREY   THOMAS    DE    VERE. 

Each  work  demands  strong  hearts,  strong  hands, 
Till  day  is  done. 

Sing  not  that  violet-veined  skin, 

That  cheek's  pale  roses, 
The  lily  of  that  form  wherein 
Her  soul  reposes  ! 
Forth  to  the  fight,  true  man  !  true  knight  ! 

The  clash  of  arms 
Shall  more  prevail  than  whisper'd  tale, 
To  win  her  charms. 

The  Avarrior  for  the  True,  the  Right, 

Fights  in  Love's  name  ; 
The  love  that  lures  thee  from  that  fight 

Lures  thee  to  shame  : 
That  love  which  lifts  the  heart,  yet  leaves 

The  spirit  free, — 
That  love,  or  none,  is  fit  for  one 

Man-shaped  like  thee. 


SORROIV. 

When  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow 

"  Come,  and  I  will  play  with  thee  !  " 

He  is  near  me  now  all  day. 

And  at  night  returns  to  say 

"  I  will  come  again  to-morrow — 

I  will  come  and  stay  with  thee." 

Through  the  woods  we  walk  together, — 
His  soft  footsteps  rustle  by  me  : 
To  shield  an  unregarded  head 
He  hath  built  a  winter  shed ; 
And  all  night  in  rainy  weather 

I  hear  his  gentle  breathings  by  me. 


AUBREY   THOMAS   DE   VERE.  205 


SONG. 

Love  laid  down  his  golden  head 
On  his  mother's  knee  : 
"  The  world  runs  round  so  fast  " — he  said, 
"  None  has  time  for  me." 

Thought,  a  sage  unhonor'd,  turn'd 
From  the  on-rushing  crew  ; 

Song  her  starry  legend  spurn'd  ; 
Art  her  glass  down  threw. 

Roll  on,  blind  world  !  upon  thy  track 
Until  thy  wheels  catch  fire  : 

For  that  is  gone  which  comes  not  back 
To  seller  nor  to  buyer. 


SONG. 

Softly,  O  midnight  Hours  ! 

Move  softly  o'er  the  bowers 
Where  lies  in  happy  sleep  a  Girl  so  fair  : 

For  ye  have  power,  men  say, 

Our  hearts  in  sleep  to  sway 
And  cage  cold  fancies  in  a  moonlight  snare. 

Round  ivory  neck  and  arm 

Enclasp  a  separate  charm  : 
Hang  o'er  her  poised  ;  but  breathe  nor  sigh  nor  prayer  ! 

Silently  ye  may  smile. 

But  hold  your  breath  the  while 
And  let  the  wind  sweep  back  your  cloudy  hair ! 

Bend  down  your  glittering  urns 
(Ere  yet  the  dawn  returns) 
And  star  with  dew  the  lawn  her  feet  shall  tread ; 
Upon  the  air  rain  balm  ; 
Bid  all  the  woods  be  calm  ; 


206  THOMAS   BURBIDGE. 

Ambrosial  dreams  with  healthful  slumbers  wed  ! 

That  so  the  Maiden  may 

With  smiles  your  care  repay 
When  from  her  couch  she  lifts  her  golden  head. 

Waking  with  earliest  birds 

Ere  yet  the  misty  herds 
Leave  warm  'mid  the  grey  grass  their  dusky  bed. 

NOTHING  MORE. 

A  sigh  in  the  morning  grey, — 

And  a  solitary  tear, 
Slow  to  gather,  slow  to  fall, — 
And  a  painful  flush  of  shame 
At  the  mention  of  thy  name  : 

This  is  little,  this  is  all. 
False  One  !  that  remains  to  say 
That  thy  love  of  old  was  here. 
That  thy  love  hath  pass'd  away. 

THOMAS    BURBIDGE. 

1816— 


ZOF£'S  INSISTENCE. 

If  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs 
To  throw  a  merry  hour  away, 

Comes  Love  unto  me,  and  my  wrongs 
In  careful  tale  he  doth  display  ; 

And  asks  me  how  I  stand  for  singing 

While  I  my  helpless  hands  am  wringing 

And  then,  another  time,  if  I 

A  noon  in  shady  bower  would  pass, 
Comes  he  with  stealthy  gestures  sly 

And,  flinging  down  upon  the  grass. 


CHARLES    GEORGE   ROSENBERG.  20/ 

Quoth  he  to  me — "  My  Master  dear  ! 
Think  of  this  noontide  such  a  year." 

And  if  elsewhile  I  lay  my  head 

On  pillow,  with  intent  to  sleep, 
Lies  Love  beside  me  on  the  bed 

And  gives  me  ancient  words  to  keep  : 
Says  he — "  These  looks,  these  tokens  number  ! 
May  be  they'll  help  you  to  a  slumber," 

So  every  time  when  I  would  yield 

An  hour  to  quiet,  comes  he  still, 
And  hunts  up  every  sign  conceal'd 

And  every  outward  sign  of  ill  ; 
And  gives  me  his  sad  face's  pleasures 
For  Merriment's  or  Sleep's  or  Leisure's 

CHARLES    GEORGE   ROSENBERG. 

1815— 1876. 


THE  WINGED  HORSE. 

Wake  from  your  homes  in  tomb  and  shroud  ! 

Wake,  Splendours  of  the  Past ! 

Joy  divine,  and  Passion  proud, 

Hope  sublime,  and  Vision  vast ! 

Let  our  love  your  glories  trace 

Eye  to  eye  and  face  to  face  ; 

Let  our  arms  your  beauties  bind  : — 
Or  are  ye  like  the  wind 
To  sight  impalpable,  too  thin  for  our  embrace? 

Fire  and  water  have  we  bound 

To  the  car  and  to  the  wheel 
With  harness  and  with  trace  of  steel  ; 
A  living  speech  and  utterance  found 

For  the  very  lightning's  speed  : 
Every  element  compell'd 


208  CHARLES    GEORGE   ROSENBERG. 

To  our  luxury  or  need  ; 
And  with  a  certain  prophecy 
Learn'd  to  count  the  courses  held 

By  the  chance-worlds  that  whirl  on  high, 

The  nightmares  of  a  dreaming  sky. 

Surely  it  were  an  easy  task 
After  this  to  bend  and  yoke 
The  mighty  Thought  of  ages  past, 
The  Horse  our  younger  fathers  broke  : 
The  wondrous  Steed 
Whose  wind-wing'd  speed 
Treads  on  the  hill-top  and  the  cloud, — 
The  glorious  Horse 
Whose  sun-paved  course 
The  young  Greek  and  Roman  bow'd, — 
The  Steed  whose  mane, 
Like  golden  rain, 
A  glory  round  the  Italian  shed 
On  the  great  road  through  Hell  and  Heaven 
His  restless  will  alone  might  tread, — 
The  Horse  with  living  music  shod 
To  the  one  bard  of  England  given, 
By  whom,  as  by  a  guiding  God, 
His  tramp  of  melody  was  driven 
Through  every  deep  and  hidden  part 
Of  that  strange  thing  the  human  heart. 

And  yet  the  Song  is  still, 

And  on  the  cloud  and  hill 
Does  the  strong  Steed  unbitted  stray  ; 

The  wave  and  air  we  tame. 

Harness  the  wind  and  flame, — 
Uncurb'd  and  free  his  glories  play. 
None  the  Wing'd  One's  speed  may  yoke, — 

Lost  the  bit,  the  bridle  broke, — 
Unknown  the  might,  unseen  the  way. 


CHARLES   GEORGE   ROSENBERG.  209 

He  alone  may  mount  the  Steed 
To  whom  the  ancient  spell  is  known  ; 
He  its  magic  letters  read 
Who  has  the  Will,  and  he  alone  : 
And  the  Will  our  souls  have  sold 
For  the  love  of  steel  and  gold, — 
Sold  the  mighty  for  the  mean, 
Truck'd  the  priceless  for  the  vile, 
Barter'd  for  the  foul  the  clean  ; 
And,  instead  of  weeping,  smile. 

In  the  name  of  Truth  alone 

Might  the  ancient  rider  feel 
The  strength  to  curb  the  heavenly  Steed  : 
A  very  child  would  scarcely  need 

Scourge  in  hand  or  spur  on  heel 

If  that  little  word  were  known  ; 
But  giant  brawn  and  Titan  force — 

Strength  of  muscle  and  of  mind — 

Human  wit  and  might  combined, 

Were  those  letters  five  unread, 

111  upon  the  task  were  sped 
To  mount  and  curb  the  glorious  Horse. 

Earth  is  old,  but  then  was  young  : 
They  were  children,  We  are  men  : 

Youth's  great  hymn  of  faith  is  sung  : 
Clay  which  counts  could  worship  then. 

Give  us  a  God — a  living  God, 

One  to  wake  the  sleeping  soul. 
One  to  cleanse  the  tainted  blood 

Whose  pulses  in  our  bosoms  roll  : 
A  vigorous  faith's  refreshing  breath, 

To  make  us  hunger  for  the  True, — 

A  faith  to  quicken  and  renew 
The  nightmare  of  our  Life-in-Death  ! 
II.— 14 


2IO  HENRY    S.    SUTTON. 

Come  it  how  or  whence  it  may, 
That  Faith  divine,  that  earnest  Will, — 

This  alone  may  teach  the  way 
To  curb  and  bit  the  Wing'd  One  still. 
Truth  and  Faith  are  ever  wed, — 
Faith  alone  the  cloud  may  tread 
And  look  unblinded  on  the  Sun. 
This  was  the  magic  of  the  Dead  : 
They  had  a  faith, — and  we  have  none. 

HENRY  SEPTIMUS  SUTTON. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  GOD. 

So  strive,  so  rule.  Almighty  Lord  of  All! 
So  greatly  win  thy  planet-victory  ! 
So  gloriously  what  baffles  bring  in  thrall  ! 
So  strongly  work,  Earth's  final  jubilee 
With  gladness  and  with  singing  to  instal ! 

And  man  may  work  with  the  great  God  :  yea,  ours 
This  privilege, — all  others  how  beyond  ! 
To  tend  the  great  Man-root  until  it  flowers  ; 
To  scorn  with  godly  laughter  when  Despond 
Tamely  before  a  hoary  hindrance  cowers  ; 

Effectually  the  planet  to  subdue. 
And  break  old  savagehood  in  claw  and  tusk ; 
That  noble  end  to  trust  in  and  pursue 
Which  under  Nature's  half-expressive  husk 
Lies  ever  from  the  base  conceal'd  from  view; 

To  draw  our  fellows  up,  as  with  a  cord 
Of  love,  unto  their  high-appointed  place, 
Till,  from  our  state  barbaric  and  abhorr'd, 
We  do  arise  unto  a  royal  race  : 
To  be  the  blest  companions  of  The  Lord. 


ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH.  211 

CHARLES    WELDON. 
i8—     1856  ? 


THE  POEM  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 

The  Poem  of  the  Universe 
Nor  rhythm  has  nor  rhyme  ; 

Some  God  recites  the  wondrous  song 
A  stanza  at  a  time. 

Great  deeds  is  he  foredoom'd  to  do — 
With  Freedom's  flag  unfuri'd — 

Who  hears  the  echo  of  that  song 
As  it  goes  down  the  world. 

Great  words  he  is  compell'd  to  speak 
Who  understands  the  song  : 

He  rises  up  hke  fifty  men, 
Fifty  good  men  and  strong. 

A  stanza  for  each  century  : — 
Now  heed  it,  all  who  can! 

Who  hears  it,  he,  and  only  he, 
Is  the  elected  man. 

ARTHUR   HUGH    CLOUGH. 
1819— 1861. 


PESCHIERA. 

What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera  !  when  thy  bridge  I  cross'd  ? 
"  'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all !  " 

The  tricolour — a  trampled  rag 
Lies,  dirt  and  dust ;  the  lines  I  track 
By  sentry  boxes,  yellow-black, 
Lead  up  to  no  Italian  flag. 


212  ARTHUR   HUGH   CLOUGH. 

I  see  the  Croat  soldier  stand 
Upon  the  grass  of  your  redoubts  ; 
The  eagle  with  his  black  wings  flouts 
The  breadth  and  beauty  of  your  land. 

Yet  not  in  vain,  although  in  vain, 
O  men  of  Brescia !  on  the  day 
Of  loss  past  hope  I  heard  you  say 
Your  welcome  to  the  noble  pain. 

You  said — "  Since  so  it  is,  good-bye, 
Sweet  life  !  high  hope  !  but  whatsoe'er 
May  be,  or  must,  no  tongue  shall  dare 
To  tell — ^the  Lombard  fear'd  to  die." 

You  said  (there  shall  be  answer  fit !) — 
*'  And  if  our  children  must  obey. 

They  must  ;  but  thinking  on  this  day 
'Twill  less  debase  them  to  submit." 

You  said  (O  not  in  vain  you  said) — 
"  Haste,  brothers!  haste,  while  yet  we  may, 
The  hours  ebb  fast  of  this  one  day 
When  blood  may  yet  be  nobly  shed." 

Ah  !  not  for  idle  hatred,  not 
For  honour,  fame,  nor  self-applause, 
But  for  the  glory  of  the  Cause 
You  did  what  will  not  be  forgot. 

And  though  the  stranger  stand,  'tis  true, — 
By  force  and  fortune's  right  he  stands  : 
By  fortune,  which  is  in  God's  hands  ; 
And  strength,  which  yet  shall  spring  in  you. 

This  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall, 
Peschiera  !  when  thy  bridge  1  cross'd  : 
'Tis  better  to  have  fought  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  fought  at  all. 


JULIA   WARD    HOWE.  213 


NOT  UNAVAILING. 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 
And  as  things  have  been  they  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  conceal'd. 
Your  comrades  chase  even  now  the  fliers 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking. 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain. 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  Eastern  windows  only. 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light ; 

In  front  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly  ! 
But  Westward,  look  !  the  land  is  bright. 


JULIA   WARD   HOWE. 
1819— 


BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord  : 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored  ; 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword  ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

Glory  !  glory  !  hallelujah  !  his  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  Him  in  the  watchfires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps  ; 
They  have  builded  Him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and 
damps ; 


214  WALT   WHITMAN. 

I  can  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps  ; 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

Glory  !  glory  !  hallelujah  !  his  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnish'd  rows  of  steel  : 

As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal  : 
Let  the  hero  born  of  womian  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel ! 
Since  God  is  marching  on. 

Glory  !  glory  !  hallelujah  !  since  God  is  marching  on. 

He  hath  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  re- 
treat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat  : 
O,  be  swift,  my  soul  !  to  answer  Him  ;  be  jubilant,  iny  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

Glory  !  glory  !  hallelujah  !  our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born,  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me  : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free  ! 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

Glory  !  glory  !  hallelujah  !  while  God  is  marching  on. 


WALT    WHITMAN. 
1819 — 


PIONEERS. 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children  ! 
Follow  well  in  order,  get  your  weapons  ready  ! 
Have  you  your  pistols  ?  have  you  your  sharp-edged  axes  ? 
Pioneers  !   O  pioneers  ! 

For  we  can  not  tarry  here  ; 
We  must  march,  my  darlings  !    we   must  bear  the  brunt  of 
dancer : 


WALT   WHITMAN.  21$ 

We,  the  youthful  sinewy  races, — all  the  rest  on  us  depend, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  you  youths.  Western  youths  ! 
So  impatient,  full  of  action,  full  of  manly  pride  and  friendship  : 
Plain  I  see  you.  Western  youths  !  see  you  tramping  with  the 
foremost, 

Pioneers  !   O  pioneers  ! 

Have  the  elder  races  halted  ? 
Do  they  droop  and  end  their  lesson,  wearied,  over  there  be- 
yond the  seas  ; 
We  take  up  the  task  eternal,  and  the  burden,  and  the  lesson, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  past  we  leave  behind  : 
We  debouch  upon  a  newer,  mightier  world,  varied  world  : 
Fresh  and  strong  the  world  we  seize,  world  of  labour  and  the 
march, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  detachments  steady  throwing, 
Down  the  edges,  through  the  passes,  up  the  mountains  steep. 
Conquering,  holding,  daring,  venturing,  as  we  go  the  unknown 
ways. 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

We  primeval  forests  felling, 
We  the  rivers   stemming,   vexing  we  and  piercing  deep  the 

mines  within, 
We  the  surface  broad  surveying,  and  the  virgin  soil  upheaving, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers ! 

Colorado  men  are  we  : 
From  the  peaks  gigantic,  from  the  great  sierras  and  the  high 
plateaus, 


2l6  WALT   WHITMAN. 

From  the  mine  and  from  the  gully,  from  the  hunting  trail,  we 
come, 

Pioneers!  O  pioneers  ! 

From  Nebraska,  from  Arkansas, 
Central  inland  race  are  we,  from  Missouri,  with  the  continental 

blood  intervein'd, 
All  the  hands  of  comrades  clasping,  all  the  Southern,  all  the 
Northern, 

Pioneers  !   O  pioneers  ! 

O  resistless,  restless  race  ! 
O  belovM  race  in  all !     O  my  breast  aches  with  tender  love  for 

all! 
O  I  mourn  and  yet  exult — I  am  rapt  with  love  for  all. 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers! 

Raise  the  mighty  Mother  Mistress  ! 
Waving  high  the  delicate  Mistress,  over  all,  the   starry  Mis- 
tress ! — bend  your  heads  all ! 
Raise  the  fang'd  and  warlike  Mistress,  stern,  impassive,  wea- 
pon'd  Mistress! 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

See  my  children,  resolute  children  ! 
By  those  swarms  upon  our  rear,  we  must  never  yield  or  falter. 
Ages  back  in  ghostly  millions  frowning  there  behind  us  urging, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

On  and  on,  the  compact  ranks, 
With   accessions  ever  waiting,   with  the   places  of  the  dead 

quickly  fill'd, — 
Through  the  battle,  through  defeat,  moving  yet  and  never  stop- 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

O  to  die  advancing  on  ! 
Are  there  some  of  us  to  droop  and  die  ?  has  the  hour  come  ? 


WALT   WHITMAN.  21/ 

Then  upon  the  march  we  fittest  die,  soon  and  sure  the  gap  is 
fili'd, 

Pioneers!  pioneers! 

All  the  pulses  of  the  world, 
Falling  in,  they  beat  for  us,  with  the  Western  movement  beat. 
Holding  single  or  together,  steady  moving,  to  the  front,  all  for  us, 
Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  ! 

Life's  involved  and  varied  pageants, 
All  the  forms  and  shows,  all  the  workmen  at  their  work. 
All  the  seamen  and  the  landsmen,  all  the  masters  with  their 
slaves, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

All  the  hapless  silent  lovers, 
All  the  prisoners  in  the  prisons,   all  the  righteous,  and  the 

wicked. 
All  the  joyous,  all  the  sorrowing,  all  tlie  living,  all  the  dying. 
Pioneers  !    O  pioneers  ! 

I  too  with  my  soul  and  body. 
We  a  curious  trio,  picking,  wandering  on  our  way. 
Through  these  shores,  amid  the  shadows,  with  the  apparitions 
pressing. 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Lo  !  the  darting  bowling  orb, 
Lo !    the   brother   orbs   around,    all   the   clustering   suns   and 

planets, 
All  the  dazzling  days,  all  the  mystic  nights  with  dreams, 
Pioneers !  O  pioneers ! 

These  are  of  us,  they  are  with  us. 
All  for  primal  needed  work,  while  the  followers  there  in  em- 
bryo wait  behind, 
We  to-day's  procession  heading,  we  the  route  for  travel  clear- 
ing, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


2l8  WALT   WHITMAN. 

O  you  daughters  of  the  West ! 
O  you  young  and  elder  daughters  !     O  you  mothers  and  you 

wives  ! 
Never  must  you  be  divided,  in  our  ranks  you  move  united, 
Pioneers  !   O  pioneers  ! 

Minstrels  latent  on  the  prairies  ! 
(Shrouded  bards  of  other  lands  !  you   may  sleep — you   have 

done  your  work) 
Soon  I  hear  you  coming  warbling,  soon  you  rise  and  tramp 
amid  us, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Not  for  delectations  sweet. 
Not  the  cushion   and   the  slipper,  not  the  peaceful  and    the 

studious, 
Not  the  riches  safe  and  palling,  not  for  us  the  tame  enjoyment, 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Do  the  feasters  gluttonous  feast. 
Do  the  corpulent  sleepers  sleep,  have  they  lock'd  and  bolted 

doors, — 
Still  be  ours  the  diet  hard  and  the  blanket  on  the  ground  ! 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Has  the  night  descended  ? 
Was  the  road  of  late  so  toilsome?  did  we  stop,  discouraged, 

nodding  on  our  way  ? 
Yet  a  passing  hour  I  yield  you,  in  your  tracks  to  pause  ob- 
livious, 

Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 

Till  with  sound  of  trumpet. 
Far,  far  off  the  day-break  call !     Hark  !  how  loud  and  clear   I 

hear  it  wind. 
Swift !  to  the  head  of  the  army  !  swift !  spring  to  your  places  ! 
Pioneers  !  O  pioneers  ! 


WALT   WHITMAN.  219 


THE  SOLDIER'S  LETTER. 
I. 

Come  up   from  the  fields,   Father!  here's  a  letter  from  our 

Pete  ; 
And  come  to  the  front  door,  Mother !  here's  a  letter  from  thy 

dear  son. 


Lo  !  tis  Autumn  : 

Lo !  where  the  trees,  deeper  green,  yellower  and  redder, 

Cool  and  sweeten  Ohio's  villages,  with  leaves  fluttering  in  the 

moderate  wind  ; 
Where  apples  ripe  in  the  orchards  hang,  and  grapes  on  the 

trellis'd  vines  ! 
(Smell  you  the  smell  of  the  grapes  on  the  vines  ? 
Smell  you  the  buckwheat,  where  the  bees  were  lately  buzzing  ?) 

Above  all,  lo !  the  sky,  so  calm,  so  transparent  after  the  rain, 
and  with  wondrous  clouds  ; 

Below  too  all  calm,  all  vital  and  beautiful, — and  the  farm  pros- 
pers well. 

3- 

Down  in  the  fields  all  prospers  well  : 

But  now  from  the  fields  come.  Father !  come  at  the  daughter's 

call ; 
And  come  to  the  entry.  Mother !  to  the  front  door  come,  right 

away. 

Fast  as  she  can  she  hurries — something  ominous — her  steps 

trembling  ; 
She  does  not  tarry  to  smooth  her  hair,  nor  adjust  her  cap. 

Open  the  envelope  quickly ! 

O,  this  is  not  our  son's  writing,  yet  his  name  is  sign'd ; 


220  WALT   WHITMAN. 

O,  a  strange  hand  writes  for  our  dear  son — O  stricken  Mother's 

soul ! 
All  swims  before  her  eyes — flashes  with  black — she  catches  the 

main  words  only  ; 
Sentences  broken, — "  gun-shot  wound  in  the  breast,  cavalry 

skirmish,  taken  to  the  hospital, 
At  present  low,  but  will  soon  be  better." 

4. 

Ah  !  now  the  single  figure  to  me. 

Amid  all  teeming  and  wealthy  Ohio  with  all  its  cities  and  farms, 
Sickly  white  in  the  face  and  dull  in  the  head,  very  faint, 
By  the  jamb  of  a  door  leans. 

"Grieve  not  so,  dear  Mother!"      The  just  grown  daughter 

speaks  through  her  sobs  ; 
The  little  sisters  huddle  around  speechless  and  dismay'd  : 
"See,  dearest    Mother!     the   letter   says    Pete  will   soon   be 

better." 


Alas,  poor  boy !  he  will  never  be  better  (nor  may-be  needs  to 

be  better,  that  brave  and  simple  soul). 
While  they  stand  at  home  at  the  door,  he  is  dead  already. 
The  only  son  is  dead. 

But  the  Mother  needs  to  be  better, — 

She,  with  thin  form,  presently  dress'd  in  black  ; 

By  day  her  meals  untouch'd, — then  at  night  fitfully  sleeping, 
often  waking. 

In  the  midnight  waking,  weeping,  longing  with  one  deep  long- 
ing— 

O  that  she  might  withdraw  unnoticed — silent  from  life  escape 
and  withdraw. 

To  follow,  to  seek,  to  be  with  her  dear  dead  son  ! 


THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS.  221 

THOMAS   WILLIAM    PARSONS. 
1819— 


DIRGE. 


What  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead, 
Or  say,  or  write,  that  shall  express  the  half? 
What  can  we  do  but  pillow  that  fair  head. 
And  let  the  Spring-time  write  her  epitaph  ? 

As  it  will  soon,  in  snow-drop,  violet. 
Wind-flower,  and  columbine,  and  maiden's  tear 
Each  letter  of  that  pretty  alphabet 
That  spells  in  flowers  the  pageant  of  the  year. 

She  was  a  maiden  for  a  man  to  love, 
She  was  a  woman  for  a  husband's  life, 
One  that  had  learn'd  to  value  far  above 
The  name  of  Love  the  sacred  name  of  Wife. 

Her  little  life-dream,  rounded  so  with  sleep, 
Had  all  there  is  of  life — except  grey  hairs  : 
Hope,  love,  trust,  passion,  and  devotion  deep, 
And  that  mysterious  tie  a  Mother  bears. 

She  hath  fulfiU'd  her  promise  and  hath  pass'd. 
Set  her  down  gently  at  the  iron  door  ! 
Eyes  !  look  on  that  loved  image  for  the  last : 
Now  cover  it  in  earth — her  earth  no  more ! 

SAINT  PERAY. 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray, 
It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 
He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 
Ever  did  me  any  good  : 
Many  I  have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 


222  THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS. 

On  the  Atlantic,  faint  and  sick, 
Once  I  pray'd  Saint  Dominick  : 
He  was  holy  (sure),  and  wise  ; — 
Was't  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto-da-fes  and  rosaries  ? 
But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next,  in  pleasant  Normandie, 

I  made  a  prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 

In  the  great  cathedral  where 

All  the  ancient  kings  repose  ; 

But  how  I  was  swindled  there 

At  the  "  Golden  Fleece,"— he  knows ! 

In  my  wanderings  vague  and  various 
Reaching  Naples, — as  I  lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 
I  besought  Saint  Januarius. 
But  I  was  a  fool  to  try  him, — 
Nought  I  said  could  liquefy  him  ; 
And  I  swear  he  did  me  wrong. 
Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 
Jews  and  Greeks  and  things  unclean  : 
What  need  had  I  of  quarantine  ? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a  score. 
In  Spain  about  as  many  more, 
And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 
Did  I  pray  to — sans  reply  : 
Devil  take  the  tribe  !  said  I. 

Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 
To  Assissi's  walls  I  came  : 
Sad,  and  full  of  home-sick  fancies, 
I  addrcss'd  me  to  Saint  Francis  ; 


THOMAS   WILLIAM   PARSONS.  223 

But  the  beggar  never  did 
Anything  as  he  was  bid, 
Never  gave  me  aught — but  fleas  : 
Plenty  had  I  at  Assisse. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 
Hard  by  the  Rhone,  I  found  a  Saint 
Gifted  with  a  wondrous  juice 
Potent  for  the  worst  complaint ! 
'Twas  at  Avignon  that  first, 
In  the  witching  time  of  thirst. 
To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  this  blessed  Catholic's  name, 
Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I  had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a  third 
Of  a  litre  pass'd  my  lips. 
All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse  : 
For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 
With  such  magic  into  mine 
That  methought  such  bUss  as  I  did 
Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Rest  he  gave  me,  and  refection, 
Chasten'd  hopes,  calm  retrospection, 
Softened  images  of  sorrow. 
Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow, 
Charity  for  what  is  pass'd. 
Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now,  why  should  any  almanack 
The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack  ? 
Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 
Omit  a  Saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 
The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a  day 


224  CHARLES   KINGSLEY. 

Especially  to  Saint  Pevay. 
But,  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed 
On  purpose  by  the  Lord's  Anointed, 
Let  us  not  wait !     We'll  do  him  right. 
Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal  !  and  set  your  night ! 


CHARLES    KINGSLEY. 
1819—1875. 


TO    THE  NORTH-EAST   WIND. 

Welcome,  wild  North-Easter  ! 

Shame  it  is  to  see 
Odes  to  every  Zephyr, 

Ne'er  a  verse  to  thee. 
Welcome,  black  North-Easter ! 

O'er  the  German  foam. 
O'er  the  Danish  moorlands, 

From  thy  frozen  home. 
Tired  we  are  of  Summer, 

Tired  of  gaudy  glare, 
Showers  soft  and  steaming, 

Hot  and  breathless  air  ; 
Tired  of  listless  dreaming 

Through  the  lazy  day  : 
Jovial  Wind  of  Winter  ! 

Turn  us  out  to  play  ! 
Sweep  the  golden  reed-beds  ! 

Crisp  the  lazy  dyke  ! 
Hunger  into  madness 

Every  plunging  pike  ! 
Fill  the  lake  with  wild  fowl ! 

Fill  the  marsh  with  snipe. 
While  on  dreary  moorlands 

Lonely  curlew  pipe  ! 
Through  the  black  fir-forest 


CHARLES   KINGSLEY.  22 5 

Thunder  harsh  and  dry, 
Shattering  down  the  snow-flakes 

Off  the  curdled  sky  ! 
Hark!  the  brave  North-Easter  ! 

Breast-high  Ues  the  scent  : 
On,  by  holt  and  headland, 

Over  heath  and  bent  ! 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings  ! 

Through  the  sleet  and  snow  : 
Who  can  over-ride  you  ? 

Let  the  horses  go  ! 
Chime,  ye  dappled  darlings  ! 

Down  the  roaring  blast  : 
You  shall  see  a  fox  die 

Ere  an  hour  be  pass'd. 
Go  !  and  rest  to-morrow, 

Hunting  in  your  dreams, 
While  our  skates  are  ringing 

O'er  the  frozen  streams. 
Let  the  luscious  South-Wind 

Breathe  in  lover's  sighs, 
While  the  lazy  gallants 

Bask  in  ladies'  eyes  ! 
What  does  he  but  soften 

Heart  alike  and  pen  ? 
'Tis  the  hard  grey  weather 

Breeds  hard  Englishmen. 
What's  the  soft  South-Wester  ? 

'Tis  the  ladies'  breeze. 
Bringing  home  their  true  loves 

Out  of  all  the  seas. 
But  the  black  North-Eastc", 

Through  the  snow-storm  hurl'd. 
Drives  our  English  hearts  of  oak 

Seaward,  round  the  world. 
Come  !  as  came  our  fathers. 

Heralded  by  thee, 
II.-iS 


226  CHARLES   KINGSLEY 

Conquering,  from  the  East-ward, 

Lords  by  land  and  sea. 
Come  !  and  strong  within  us 

Stir  the  Vikings'  blood, 
Bracing  brain  and  sinew  ! 

Blow  !  thou  Wind  of  God  ! 


THE  SANDS   OF  DEE. 

O  Mary !  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, — 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 

And  call  the  cattle  home 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee  !  " 
The  "Western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 

And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 

And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land  ; 

And  never  home  came  she. 

O,  is  it  weed  or  fish  or  floating  hair, 

A  tress  of  golden  hair, 

A  drowned  maiden's  hair. 

Above  the  nets,  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 

Among  the  stakes  on  Dee." 

They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 

Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 


MARY   ANN    EVANS    LEWIS.  22/ 

A  HOPE. 

Twins  stars,  aloft  in  ether  clear, 

Around  each  other  roll  alvvay, 
Within  one  common  atmosphere 

Of  their  own  mutual  light  and  day. 

And  myriad  happy  eyes  are  bent 
Upon  their  changeless  love  alway  : 

As,  strengthen'd  by  their  one  intent, 
They  pour  the  flood  of  life  and  day. 

So  we  through  this  world's  waning  night 
May,  hand  in  hand,  pursue  our  way ; 

Shed  round  us  order,  love,  and  light, 
And  shine  unto  the  perfect  day. 

MARY    ANN    EVANS    LEWES. 

"  GEORGE  ELIOT." 
I819— 1880. 


THE  DARK. 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 

Say,  O  Song  ! 
Lacks  my  Love  aught  that  I  should  long  ? 

Dark  the  Night,  with  breath  all  flowers, 
And  tender  broken  voice  that  fills 
With  ravishment  the  listening  hours, — 

Whisperings,  wooings, 
Liquid  ripples,  and  soft  ring-dove  cooings 
In  low-toned  rhythm  that  love's  aching  stills  ! 
Dark  the  Night  :  yet  is  she  bright. 
For  in  her  dark  she  brings  the  mystic  star, 
Trembling  yet  strong  as  is  the  voice  of  love, 

From  some  unknown  afar. 
O  radiant  Dark  !  O  darkly  foster'd  Ray  ! 
Thou  hast  a  joy  too  deep  for  shallow  Day. 


-28  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL. 
1819— 


HEBE. 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 

I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending, — 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet 

That  bovv'd  my  heart,  hke  barley  bending. 

As  in  bare  fields  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding. 
It  led  me  on, — by  sweet  degrees, 
'  Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 

Those  Graces  were  that  seem'd  grim  Fates  ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  lean'd  o'er  me  ; 
The  long-sought  secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimm'd  bowl  in  her  grasp, 
Thrilling  with  godhood  ;  like  a  lover, 
I  sprang  the  proffer'd  life  to  clasp  : 
The  beaker  fell,  the  luck  was  over. 

The  earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up  : 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters  ? 
Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's  ? 

O  spendthrift  Haste  !     Await  the  Gods  ! 
Their  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience. 
Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo. 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her; 
Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honour  ! 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL.  229 

THE  COURTIN". 
God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 

Fur'z  you  can  look  or  listen, 
Moonshine  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 

All  silence  an'  all  glisten — 

Zekle  crep'  up  quite  unbeknown 

An'  peek'd  in  thru'  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'Ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

A  fire-place  fill'd  the  room's  one  side 

With  half  a  cord  o'  wood  in, — 
There  warn't  no  stoves  (tell  comfort  died) 

To  bake  ye  to  a  puddin'. 

The  wa'nut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Towards  the  Pootiest,  bless  her  ! 
An'  leetle  flames  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

Agin  the  chimbley  crook-necks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted. 
The  ole  queen's-arm  that  gran'ther  Young 

Fetch'd  back  from  Concord  busted. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  was  in, 
Seem'd  warm  from  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  look'd  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  the  apples  she  was  peelin'. 

'Twas  kin'  o'  kingdom-come  to  look 

On  sech  a  blessed  cretur  : 
A  dog-rose  blushin'  to  a  brook 

Ain't  modester  nor  sweeter. 

He  was  six  foot  o'  man,  A  i. 

Clean  grit  an'  human  natur'  ; 
None  couldn't  quicker  pitch  a  ton, 

Nor  dror  a  furrer  straighten 


230  JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL. 

He'd  spark'd  it  with  full  twenty  gals, 

He'd  squired  'em,  danced  'em,  druv  'em. 

Fust  this  one,  an'  then  thet,  by  spells  : 
All  is,  he  couldn't  love  'em. 

But  long  o'  her  his  veins  'ould  run 

All  crinkly,  like  curl'd  maple  ; 
The  side  she  bresh'd  felt  full  o'  sun 

Ez  a  South  slope  in  A'pil. 

She  thought  no  v'ice  hed  such  a  swing 

Ez  hisn  in  the  choir  ; 
My  !  when  he  made  Old  Hundred  ring, 

She  knoiv'd  the  Lord  was  nigher. 

An'  she'd  blush  scarlit,  right  in  prayer, 

When  her  new  meetin'-bunnet 
Felt  somehow  thru'  its  crown  a  pair 

O'  blue  eyes  sot  upon  it. 

That  night,  I  tell  ye,  she  look'd  so7ne  ! 

She  seem'd  to've  gut  a  new  soul. 
For  she  felt  sartin-sure  he'd  come, 

Down  to  her  very  shoe-sole. 

She  heer'd  a  foot,  an'  know'd  it  tu, 

A-raspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  I'iter'd  on  the  mat. 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  sekle  ; 
His  heart  kep'  going  pity-pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 

An'  yit  she  gin  her  cheer  a  jerk 

Ez  though  she  wish'd  him  furder, 
An'  on  her  apples  kep'  to  work, 

Parin'  away  like  murder. 


JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL.  23 1 

"  You  want  to  see  my  Pa,  I  s'pose  ?  " 

"  Wal no 1  come  dasignin' " 

"  To  see  my  Ma  ?     She's  sprinklin'  clo'es 
Agin  to-morrer's  i'nin'." 

To  say  why  gals  act  so  or  so, 

Or  don't,  'ould  be  presumin'  ; 
Mebbe  to  mean  Yes  an'  say  No 

Comes  nateral  to  women. 

He  stood  a  spell  on  one  fut  fust. 

Then  stood  a  spell  on  t'other  ; 
An'  on  which  one  he  felt  the  wust 

He  couldn't  ha'  told  ye  nuther. 

Says  he—"  I'd  better  call  agin  ;  " 
Says  she—"  Think  likely,  Mister  !  " 

That  last  word  prick'd  him  like  a  pin, 
An' Wal,  he  up  an'  kist  her. 

When  Ma  bimeby  upon  'em  slips, 

Huldy  sot  pale  ez  ashes. 
All  kin'  o'  smily  roun'  the  lips 

An'  teary  roun'  the  lashes. 

For  she  was  jes'  the  quiet  kind 

Whose  naturs  never  vary, 
Like  streams  that  keep  a  summer  mind 

Snow-hid  in  Jenooary. 

The  blood  clost  roun'  her  heart  felt  glued 

Too  tight  for  all  expi'essin', 
Tell  mother  see  how  matters  stood. 

And  gin  em'  both  her  blessin'. 

Then  her  red  come  back  like  the  tide 

Down  to  the  Bay  o'  Fundy. 
An'  all  I  know  is  they  was  cried 

In  meetin'  come  nex'  Sunday. 


232  JAMES   RUSSELL    LOWELL. 

THE  FOUNTAIN. 
Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night, — 

Into  the  moonlight, 

Whiter  than  snow, 
Waving  so  flower-like 

When  the  winds  blow, — 

Into  the  starlight 

Rushing  in  spray, 
Happy  at  midnight, 

Happy  by  day, — 

Ever  in  motion. 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward. 

Never  aweary, — 

Glad  of  all  weathers 

Still  seeming  best. 
Upward  or  downward, 

Motion  thy  rest, — 

Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame, 
Changed  every  moment. 

Ever  the  same, — 

Ceaseless  aspiring. 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element, — 

Glorious  Fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant. 

Upward,  like  thee ! 


MARIA    WHITE   LOWELL.  233 


SHE    CAME  AND    WENT. 

As  a  twig  trembles  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrill'd  and  stirr'd  : 
I  only  know  She  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven. 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven  : 
I  only  know  She  came  and  went. 

As  at  one  bound  our  swift  Spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps  : 
I  only  know  She  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent,— 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays  : 
I  only  know  She  came  and  went. 

O,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent. 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  She  came  and  went. 


MARIA   WHITE    LOWELL. 
1821— 1853. 


AN  OPIUM  FANTASY. 

Soft  hangs  the  opiate  in  the  brain, 
And  lulling  soothes  the  edge  of  pain, 
Till  harshest  sound,  far  off  or  near, 
Sings  floating  in  its  mellow  sphere. 


234  MARIA   WHITE   LOWELL. 

What  wakes  me  from  my  heavy  dream  ? 

Or  am  I  still  asleep  ? 
Those  long  and  soft  vibrations  seem 

A  slumbrous  charm  to  keep. 

The  graceful  play,  a  moment  stopp'd, 

Distance  again  unrolls, 
Like  silver  balls  that,  softly  dropp'd, 

Ring  into  golden  bowls. 

I  question  of  the  poppies  red, 

The  fairy  flaunting  band. 
While  I,  a  weed  with  drooping  head 

Within  their  phalanx  stand  : 

"  Some  airy  one,  with  scarlet  cap  ! 
The  name  unfold  to  me 
Of  this  new  minstrel  who  can  lap 
Sleep  in  his  melody  !  " 

Bright  grew  their  scarlet-kerchief'd  heads, 
As  freshening  winds  had  blown, 

And  from  their  gently-swaying  beds 
They  sang  in  undertone  : — 

"  O,  he  is  but  a  little  Owl, 

The  smallest  of  his  kin. 
Who  sits  beneath  the  Midnight's  cowl 
And  makes  this  airy  din." 

"  Deceitful  tongues  of  fiery  tints  ! 
Far  more  than  this  ye  know  : 
That  he  is  your  Enchanted  Prince 
Doom'd  as  an  Owl  to  go. 

"  Now  his  fond  play  for  years  hath  stopp'd  ; 
But  nightly  he  unrolls 
His  silver  balls  that,  softly  droppVl, 
Rine  into  c:olden  bowls." 


WILLIAM   ROSS    Vv^4lLLACE.  235 

WILLIAM  ROSS  WALLACE. 

1820— 1881. 


EL  AMIN—THE  FAITHFUL. 

Who  is  this  that  comes  from   Hara  ?  not  in  kingly  pomp  and 

pride, 
But  a  great  free  Son  of  Nature,  lion-soul'd  and  eagle-eyed  : 

Who  is  this  before  whose  presence  idols  tumble  to  the  sod  ? 
While  he  cries  out — "Allah  Akbar !  and  there  is  no  god  but 
God !  " 

Wandering  in  the  solemn  desert,  he  has  wonder'd,  like  a  child 
Not  as  yet  too  proud  to  wonder,  at  the  sun  and  star  and  wild. 

"  O  thou  Moon  !  who  made  thy  brightness  ?     Stars  !  who  hung 

ye  there  on  high  ? 
Answer  !  so  my  soul  may  worship  :  I  must  worship,  or  I  die." 

Then  there  fell  the  brooding  silence  that  precedes  the  thun- 
der's roll  ; 
And  the  old  Arabian  Whirlwind  call'd  another  Arab  soul. 

Who  is  this  that  comes  from  Hara  ?  not  in  kingly  pomp  and 

pride, 
But  a  great  free  Son  of  Nature,  lion-soul'd  and  eagle-eyed. 

He  has  stood  and  seen  Mount  Hara  to  the  Awful  Presence 

nod  ; 
He  has  heard  from  cloud  and  lightning — "  Know  there  is  no 

god  but  God  !  " 

Call  ye  this  man   an  Impostor  ?     He  was  call'd  The  Faithful, 

when 
A  boy  he  wander'd  o'er  the  deserts,  by  the  wild-eyed  Arab  men. 


236  WILLIAM   ROSS   WALLACE. 

He  was   always    call'd   The   Faithful.     Truth,   he   knew,   was 

Allah's  breath  ; 
But  the   Lie   went   darkly  gnashing  through  the    corridors   of 

Death. 

He  "  was  fierce  !  "     Yes  !  fierce  at  falsehood,  fierce  at  hideous 

bits  of  wood 
That  the  Koreish  taught  the  people  made  the  sun  and  solitude. 

But  his  heart  was  also  gentle  ;  and  affection's  graceful  palm 
Waving  in  his  tropic  spirit  to  the  weary  brought  a  balm. 

"  Precepts  ?" — Have  on  each  compassion  !    Lead  the  stranger 

to  your  door  ! 
In  your  dealings  keep  up  justice  !     Give  a  tenth  unto  the  poor  ! 

"  Yet,  ambitious!  "     Yes  !  ambitious,  while  he  heard  the  calm 

and  sweet 
Aidenn-voices   sing,   to  trample   conquer'd    Hell   beneath  his 

feet. 

"Islam?" — Yes!  submit  to  heaven  !—"  Prophet  ?  " — To  the 

East  thou  art. 
What  are  prophets  but  the  trumpets  blown  by  God  to  stir  the 

heart  ? 

And   the  great  Heart  of  the   Desert  stirr'd  unto  that  solemn 

strain 
Rolling  from  the  trump  at  Hara  over  Error's  troubled  main. 

And  a  hundred  dusky  millions  honour  still  El  Amin's  rod, 
Daily   chanting — "Allah  Akbar !  know   there   is  no  god  but 
God  !  " 

Call  him  then  no  more   Impostor  !     Mecca  is  the  Choral  Gate 
Where,  till  Zion's  noon  shall  take  them,  nations  in  the  morning 
wait. 


EBENEZER  JONES.  237 

EBENEZER  JONES. 

1820 — 1860. 


RAIN. 

More  than  the  wind,  more  than  the  snow, 

More  than  the  sunshine,  I  love  rain  : 
Whether  it  droppeth  soft  and  low, 

Whether  it  rusheth  amain. 

Dark  as  the  night  it  spreadeth  its  wings, 

Slow  and  silently,  up  on  the  hills  ; 
Then  sweeps  o'er  the  vale,  like  a  steed  that  springs 

From  the  grasp  of  a  thousand  wills. 

Swift  sweeps  under  heaven  the  raven  cloud's  flight ; 

And  the  land  and  the  lakes  and  the  main 
Lie  belted  beneath  with  steel-bright  light, 

The  light  of  the  swift-rushing  rain. 

On  evenings  of  summer,  when  sunlight  is  low. 
Soft  the  rain  falls  from  opal-hued  skies  ; 

And  the  flowers  the  most  delicate  summer  can  show 
Are  not  stirr'd  by  its  gentle  surprise. 

It  falls  on  the  pools,  and  no  wrinkling  it  makes, 

But  touching  melts  in,  like  the  smile 
That  sinks  in  the  face  of  a  dreamer,  but  breaks 

Not  the  calm  of  his  dream's  happy  wile. 

The  grass  rises  up  as  it  falls  on  the  meads, 

The  bird  softlier  sings  in  his  bower. 
And  the  circles  of  gnats  circle  on  like  wing'd  seeds 

Through  the  soft  sunny  lines  of  the  shower. 

WHEN  THE  WORLD  IS  BURNING. 

When  the  world  is  burning, 
Fired  within,  yet  turning 
Round  with  face  unscathed  ; 


238  DENIS   FLORENCE   McCARTHY. 

Ere  fierce  flames,  uprushing, 
O'er  all  lands  leap,  crushing. 

Till  earth  fall,  fii'e-swathed, — 
Up,  amidst  the  meadows. 
Gently  through  the  shadows, 

Gentle  flames  will  glide. 
Small  and  blue  and  golden  : 
Though  by  bard  beholden 
When  in  calm  dreams  folden, 

Calm  his  dreams  will  bide. 

Where  the  dance  is  sweeping, 
Through  the  greensward  peeping. 

Shall  the  soft  lights  start ; 
Laughing  maids,  unstaying, 
Deeming  it  trick-playing, 
High  their  robes  upswaying. 

O'er  the  lights  shall  dart  ; 
And  the  woodland  haunter 
Shall  not  cease  to  saunter 

When,  far  down  some  glade, 
Of  the  great  world's  burning 
One  soft  flame  upturning 
Seems,  to  his  discerning, 

Crocus  in  the  shade. 


DENIS   FLORENCE   MCCARTHY. 

1820— 1881. 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting, 

Waiting  for  the  May  : 
Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles 
Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles, 
With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way  : 


DENIS   FLORENCE   McCARTHY.  239 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary,  waiting, 
Waiting,  for  the  May. 

Ah !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing. 

Longing  for  the  May  : 
Longing  to  escape  from  study. 
To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 
And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 

To  the  summer's  day  : 
Ah  !  my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 

Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 

Sighing  for  the  May  : 
Sighing  for  their  sure  returning 
When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, — 
Hopes  and  flowers  that  dead  or  dying 

All  the  winter  lay  : 
Ah !  my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing. 

Sighing  for  the  May. 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  pain'd  with  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May  : 
Throbbing  for  the  seaside  billows 
Or  the  water-wooing  willows 
Where  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing 

Glide  the  streams  away  : 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 

Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting,  sad,  dejected,  weary, — 

Waiting  for  the  May  : 
Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings. 
Moonlit  evenings,  sun-bright  mornings, — 
Summer  comes,  yet,  dark  and  dreary, 

Life  still  ebbs  away  : 
Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May. 


240  ALICE   GARY 

FREDERICK    LOCKER. 

1S21— 


THE   UNREALIZED  IDEAL. 

My  only  Love  is  always  near, 

In  country  or  in  town  : 
I  see  her  twinkling  feet,  I  hear 

The  whisper  of  her  gown. 

She  foots  it  ever  fair  and  young, 
Her  locks  are  tied  in  haste, 

And  one  is  o'er  her  shoulder  flung 
And  hangs  below  her  waist. 

She  ran  before  me  in  the  meads, 
And  down  this  world-worn  track 

She  leads  me  on  ;  but  while  she  leads 
She  never  gazes  back. 

And  yet  her  voice  is  in  my  dreams, 
To  witch  me  more  and  more  : 

That  wooing  voice  !     Ah  me,  it  seems 
Less  near  me  than  of  yore. 

Lightly  I  sped  when  hope  was  high 
And  youth  beguiled  the  chase, — 

I  follow,  follow  still  :  but  I 
Shall  never  see  her  face. 

ALICE   CARY. 
1820 — 1871. 


OPEN  SECRETS. 

The  truth  lies  round  about  us, 
All  too  closely  to  be  sought : 

So  open  to  our  vision  that 
'Tis  hidden  to  our  thought. 


PHCEBE   GARY.  241 

We  know  not  what  the  glories 
Of  the  grass,  the  flower,  may  be  : 

We  needs  must  struggle  for  the  sight 
Of  what  we  always  see. 

Waiting  for  storms  and  whirlwinds, 

And  to  have  a  sign  appear, 
We  deem  not  God  is  speaking 

In  the  still  small  voice  we  hear. 

In  reasoning  proud,  blind  leaders 
Of  the  blind  through  life  we  go  ; 

And  do  not  know  the  things  we  see, 
Nor  see  the  things  we  know. 

Single  and  indivisible, 

We  pass  from  change  to  change. 

Familiar  with  the  strangest  things. 
And  with  familiar  strange. 

We  make  the  light  through  which  we  see 

The  light,  and  make  the  dark  : 
To  hear  the  lark  sing  we  must  be 

At  heaven's  gate  with  the  lark. 


PHCEBE    GARY. 

1824 — 1871. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

Laugh  out,  O  stream  !  from  your  bed  of  green, 

Where  you  lie  in  the  sun's  embrace  ; 
And  talk  to  the  reeds  that  o'er  you  lean 

To  touch  your  dimpled  face. 
But  let  your  talk  be  sweet  as  it  will, 

And  your  laughter  be  as  gay, 
You  can  not  laugh  as  I  laugh  in  my  heart, — 

For  my  Lover  will  come  to-day. 
II.— 16 


242 


PHCEBE   GARY. 

Sing  sweet,  little  bird  !  sing  out  to  your  mate 

That  hides  in  the  leafy  grove  ; 
Sing  clear,  and  tell  him  for  him  you  wait, 

And  tell  him  of  all  your  love. 
But  though  you  sing  till  you  shake  the  buds 

And  the  tender  leaves  of  May, 
My  spirit  thrills  with  a  sweeter  song,— 

For  my  Lover  must  come  to-day. 

Come  up,  O  winds  !  come  up  from  the  South 

With  eager  hurrying  feet, 
And  kiss  your  red  rose  on  her  mouth 

In  the  bower  where  she  blushes  sweet. 
But  you  can  not  kiss  your  darling  flower. 

Though  you  clasp  her  as  you  may, 
As  I  kiss  in  my  thought  the  Lover  dear 

I  shall  hold  in  my  arms  to-day. 

ALAS  ! 
Since,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day, 

Only  our  hands  could  meet. 
What  matter  if  half  the  weary  world 

Lies  out  between  our  feet  ? 

That  I  am  here  by  the  lonesome  sea, 

You  by  the  pleasant  Rhine  ? 
Our  hearts  were  just  as  far  apart 

If  I  held  your  hand  in  mine. 

Therefore,  with  never  a  backward  glance, 

I  leave  the  past  behind  ; 
And  standing  here  by  the  sea  alone 

I  give  it  to  the  wind. 

I  give  it  all  to  the  cruel  wind, 

And  I  have  no  word  to  say  : 
Yet,  alas  to  be  as  we  have  been, 

And  to  be  as  we  are  to-day  ! 


MATTHEW   ARNOLD.  243 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 
1822 — 


PHILOMELA. 


Hark  !  ah,  the  Nightingale  ! 

The  tawny-throated  ! 

Hark  !  from  that  moonht  cedar  what  a  burst, 

What  triumph  ! — Hark  !  what  pain  ! — 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore  ! 

Still  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 

That  wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain. 

Say  !  will  it  never  heal  ? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn. 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night,  ' 

And  the  sweet  tranquil  Thames, 

And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight,  on  this  English  grass. 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  essay 

Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive  !  the  feathery  change 

Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 

Lone  Daulis  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? — 

Listen,  Eugenia  ! 
How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the  leaves ! 

Again — thou  hearest  ? 

Eternal  passion  ! 

Eternal  Pain ! 


244  MATTHEW   ARNOLD. 

GROWING  OLD. 

What  is  it  to  grow  old  ? 

Is  it  to  lose  the  glory  of  the  form, 

The  lustre  of  the  eye  ? 

Is  it  for  Beauty  to  forego  her  wreath  ? 

Yes  !  but  not  this  alone. 

Is  it  to  feel  our  strength, 

Not  our  bloom  only,  but  our  strength  decay  ? 

Is  it  to  feel  each  limb 

Grow  stiffer,  every  function  less  exact, 

Each  nerve  more  weakly  strung  ? 

Yes  !  this  :  and  more  !  but  not. 

Ah  !  'tis  not  what  in  youth  we  dream'd  'twould  be  : 

'Tis  not  to  have  our  life 

Mellow'd  and  soften'd  as  with  sunset  glow, 

A  golden  day's  decline. 

'Tis  not  to  see  the  world 

As  from  a  height,  with  rapt  prophetic  eyes 

And  heart  profoundly  stirr'd  ; 

And  weep,  and  feel  the  fulness  of  the  past, 

The  years  that  are  no  more. 

It  is  to  spend  long  days 

And  not  once  feel  that  we  were  ever  young  ; 

It  is  to  add,  immured 

In  the  hot  prison  of  the  present,  month 

To  month  with  weary  pain. 

It  is  to  suffer  this, 

And  feel  but  half  and  feebly  what  we  feel  : 

Deep  in  our  hidden  heart 

Festers  the  dull  remembrance  of  a  change, 

But  no  emotion, — none. 


WILLIAM    (JOHNSON)    CORYi  245 

It  is  (last  stage  of  all) 

When  we  are  frozen  up  within,  and  quite 

The  phantom  of  ourselves, 

To  hear  the  world  applaud  the  hollow  ghost. 

Which  blamed  the  living  man. 


WILLIAM  (JOHNSON)  CORY. 
182^— 


MIMNERMUS  IN  CHURCH. 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife. 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will ; 

But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life. 
So  sweet  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still : 

Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego  ; 

This  warm  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here. 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear. 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love. 
Show  me  what  angels  feel !  till  then 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  choirs. 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remember'd  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  can  not  pass  away  ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay  : 

But  O,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them  is  because  they  die. 


246  SYDNEY   THOMPSON   DOBELL. 

A   FRENCH  SAILOR'S  SCOTTISH  SWEETHEART. 
I  can  not  forget  my  jo  ; 

I  bid  him  be  mine  in  sleep  : 
But  battle  and  woe  have  changed  him  so, 
There's  nothing  to  do  but  weep. 

My  mother  rebukes  me  yet, — 

And  I  never  was  meek  before  : 
His  jacket  is  wet,  his  lip  cold  set, — 

He'll  trouble  our  home  no  more. 

O,  breaker  of  reeds  that  bend  ! 

O,  quencher  of  tow  that  smokes  ! 
I'd  rather  descend  to  my  sailor  friend 

Than  prosper  with  lofty  folks. 

I'm  lying  beside  the  gowan, 

I\Iy  jo  in  the  English  bay  ; 
I'm  Annie  Rowan,  his  Annie  Rowan, — 

He  call'd  me  his  Bien-Aimee. 

I'll  hearken  to  all  you  quote, 

Though  I'd  rather  be  dead  and  free  : 

The  little  he  wrote  in  the  sinking  boat 
Is  Bible  and  charm  to  me. 

SYDNEY    THOMPSON    DOBELL. 

1824 — 1874. 


A    SLEEP  SONG. 
Sister  Simplicitie ! 
Sing,  sing  a  song  to  me, — 

Sing  me  to  sleep  ! 
Some  legend  low  and  long. 
Slow  as  the  summer  song 

Of  the  dull  Deep  : 

Some  legend  long  and  low, 
Whose  equal  ebb  and  flow, 


SYDNEY   THOMPSON   DOBELL.  24/ 

To  and  fro,  creep 
On  the  dim  marge  of  grey, 
'Tween  the  soul's  night  and  day. 
Washing  "  awake"  away 

Into  "asleep"  : 

Some  legend  low  and  long. 
Never  so  weak  or  strong 

As  to  let  go 
While  it  can  hold  this  heart 
Withouten  sigh  or  smart, 
Or  as  to  hold  this  heart 

When  it  sighs  No  : 

Some  long  low-swaying  song 
As  the  sway'd  shadow  long 

Sways  to  and  fro 
Where,  through  the  crowing  cocks, 
And  by  the  swinging  clocks, 
Some  weary  mother  rocks 

Some  weary  woe. 

Sing  up  and  down  to  me  ! 
Like  a  dream-boat  at  sea, 

So,  and  still  so, 
Float  through  the  "  then"  and  "  when," 
Rising  from  when  to  then. 
Sinking  from  then  to  when. 

While  the  waves  go  ! 

Low  and  high,  high  and  low. 
Now  and  then,  then  and  now, 
Now,  now, — 
And  when  the  now  is  then  and  when  the  then  is  now. 
And  when  the  low  is  high  and  when  the  high  is  low, 
Low,  low, — 
Let  me  float,  let  the  boat 
Go,  go ! 


248  SYDNEY   THOMPSON    DOBELL. 

Let  me  glide,  let  me  slide, 

Slow,  slow ! 
Gliding  boat,  sliding  boat, 

Slow,  slow. 
Glide  away,  slide  away  ! 

So !  so ! 

HOWS  MY  BOY? 
"  Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 

How's  my  Boy,  my  Boy  ?  " 
"  What's  your  boy's  name  ?  good  wife  ! 

And  in  what  good  ship  sail'd  he  ?  " 

*'  My  boy  John  ! 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

What  care  I  for  the  ship  ?  sailor  ! 

My  boy's  my  boy  to  me. 

"  You  come  back  from  sea, 
And  not  know  my  John  ? 
I  might  as  well  have  ask'd  some  landsman 
Yonder  down  in  the  town. 
There's  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish, 
But  he  knows  my  John. 

"  How's  my  boy,  my  boy  ? 
And  unless  you  let  me  know, 
I'll  swear  you  are  no  sailor. 
Bluejacket  or  no, — 
Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor  ! 
Anchor  and  crown  or  no. 
Sure  his  ship  was  the  Jolly  Briton  !  " 
— "  Speak  low,  woman  !  speak  low  !  " 

"  And  why  should  1  speak  low,  sailor  ! 
About  my  own  boy  John  ? 
If  I  was  loud  as  I  am  proud, 
I'd  sin;^  him  over  the  town  : 


HENRY   HOWARD   BROWNELL.  249 

Why  should  I  speak  low  ?  sailor  !  " 
— "  That  good  ship  went  down." 

*'  How's  my  boy  ?  how's  my  boy  ? 
What  care  I  for  the  ship  ?  sailor  ! 
I  was  never  aboard  her  : 
Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 
Sinking  or  swimming,  I'll  be  bound 
Her  owners  can  afford  her. 
I  say,  how's  my  John  ?  " 
— "  Every  man  on  board  went  down, — 
Every  man  aboard  her." 

*'  How's  my  boy,  my  boy  ? 

What  care  I  for  the  men  ?  sailor  ! 
I'm  not  their  mother. 
How's  my  boy,  my  boy  ? 
Tell  me  of  him,  and  no  other  ! 
How's  my  boy,  my  boy  ?  " 

HENRY   HOWARD   BROWNELL. 

1824 — 1872. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE. 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  overhead  : 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter  ! 

We  must  bury  the  dead. 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 

Rugged  of  front  and  form, — 

A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 
Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  hail'd  from 
We  know, — and  there's  nothing  more 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
In  the  lonely  Island  of  Fohr. 


250  HENRY   HOWARD    BROWNELL. 

Still  as  he  lay  there  dying, 
Reason  drifting,  a  wreck, 
"  'Tis  my  watch  !  "  he  would  mutter, — 
"  I  must  go  upon  deck  !  " 

Ay,  on  deck,  by  the  foremast ! — 
But  watch  and  look-out  are  done  : 

The  Union-Jack  laid  o'er  him. 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun  I 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine  ! 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft ! 
Let  the  roll  of  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft  ! 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer  ; 
Let  every  foot  be  quiet. 

Every  head  be  bare  ! 
The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 

A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service 

(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks), 
The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks — 
"  We  therefore  commit  his  body 

To  the  deep  !  " — and  as  he  speaks, 

Launch'd  from  the  weather-railing 

Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 
The  ghastly  shotted  hammock 

Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 
Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 

Down  into  the  dark  ! 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 
The  stormv  Gulf  shall  roll 


GEORGE   WILLIAM   CURTIS.  251 

High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin  : — 
But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole  ! 

There's  a  quiet  harbour  somewhere 
For  the  poor  aweary  soul. 

Free  the  fetter'd  engine  ! 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft ! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail ! 

The  breeze  is  far  abaft. 

Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  bright  o'erhead  : 
Every  man  to  his  duty ! 

We  have  buried  our  dead. 

QU'IL    MOURIJT! 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  tear  he  spent 

For  those  who  fell  at  his  side  ! 
But  a  moan,  and  a  long  lament 

For  him — who  might  have  died  ! 

Who  might  have  lain,  as  Harold  lay, 

A  King,  and  in  state  enow. 
Or  slept  with  his  peers,  like  Roland 

In  the  Straits  of  Roncesvaux. 

GEORGE   WILLIAM    CURTIS. 
1824 — 


SONG. 


Rushes  lean  over  the  water. 

Shells  lie  on  the  shore, 
And  thou,  the  blue  Ocean's  daughter, 

Sleep'st  soft  in  the  song  of  its  roar. 

Clouds  sail  over  the  ocean, 
White  gusts  fleck  its  calm. 


252  THOMAS   D'ARCY   McGEE. 

But  never  its  wildest  motion 
Thy  beautiful  rest  should  harm. 

White  feet  on  the  edge  of  the  billow 
Mock  its  smooth-seething  cream  ; 

Hard  ribs  of  beach-sand  thy  pillow, 
And  a  noble  lover  thy  dream. 

Like  tangles  of  sea-weed  streaming 

Over  a  perfect  pearl, 
Thy  fair  hair  fringes  thy  dreaming, 

O  sleeping  Lido  girl. 

MAJOR  AND  MINOR. 
A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 

In  the  top  of  the  highest  tree  : 
He  sang — "  I  pour  out  my  soul  in  song 

For  the  Summer  that  soon  shall  be." 

But  deep  in  the  shady  wood 

Another  bird  sang — "  I  pour 
My  soul  on  the  solemn  solitude 

For  the  Springs  that  return  no  more." 

THOMAS    D'ARCY    McGEE. 

l82q— 1868. 


THE  PENITENT  RAVEN. 
The  Raven's  house  is  built  with  reeds, — 

Sing  woe,  and  alas  is  me  ! 
And  the  Raven's  couch  is  spread  with  weeds. 

High  on  the  hollow  tree  ; 
And  the  Raven  himself,  telling  his  beads 
In  penance  for  his  past  misdeeds, 

Upon  the  top  I  see. 

Telling  his  beads  from  night  to  morn, — 
Sing  alas  !  and  woe  is  me ! 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  253 

In  penance  for  stealing  the  Abbot's  corn, 

High  on  the  hollow  tree. 
Sin  is  a  load  upon  the  breast  ; 
And  it  nightly  breaks  the  Raven's  rest, 

High  on  the  hollow  tree. 

The  Raven  pray'd  the  Winter  through, — 

Sing  woe,  and  alas  is  me  ! 
The  hail  it  fell,  the  winds  they  blew, 

High  on  the  hollow  tree, — 
Until  the  Spring  came  forth  again, 
And  the  Abbot's  men  to  sow  their  grain 

Around  the  hollow  tree. 

Alas  !  alas  for  earthly  vows, — 

Sing  alas  !  and  woe  is  me  ! 
Whether  they're  made  by  men  or  crows 

High  on  the  hollow  tree  ! 
The  Raven  swoop'd  upon  the  seed. 
And  met  his  death  in  the  very  deed, 

Beneath  the  hollow  tree. 

So  beat  we  our  breasts  in  shame  of  sin, — 

Alas  !  and  woe  is  me  ! 
While  all  is  hoUowness  within  : 

Alas  !  and  woe  is  me  ! 
And  when  the  ancient  Tempter  smiles, 
So  yield  we  our  souls  up  to  his  wiles  : 

Alas  !  and  woe  is  me  ! 

BAYARD    TAYLOR. 

1825— 1878. 


THE  WISDOM  OF  ALT. 
The  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  debate, 
Said — "  I  am  Wisdom's  fortress  ;  but  the  gate 
Thereof  is  Ali."     Wherefore  some  who  heard 
With  unbelieving  jealousy  were  stirr'd  ; 


254  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

And,  that  they  might  on  him  confusion  bring, 
Ten  of  the  boldest  join'd  to  prove  the  thing. 
"  Let  us  in  turn  to  Ali  go  !  "  they  said, — 
*'  And  ask  if  Wisdom  should  be  sought  instead 
Of  earthly  riches  :  then,  if  he  reply 
To  each  of  us  in  thought  accordantly, 
And  yet  to  none  in  speech  or  phrase  the  same, 
His  shall  the  honour  be,  and  ours  the  shame." 

Now,  when  the  first  his  bold  demand  did  make, 
These  were  the  words  which  Ali  straightway  spake  : 
"  Wisdom  is  the  inheritance  of  those 

Whom  Allah  favours  ;  riches  of  his  foes." 

Unto  the  second  he  said — "  Thy  self  must  be 
Guard  to  thy  wealth  ;  but  Wisdom  guardeth  thee." 

Unto  the  third — "  By  Wisdom  wealth  is  won  ; 
But  riches  purchased  Wisdom  yet  for  none." 

Unto  the  fourth — "  Thy  goods  the  thief  may  take  ; 
But  into  Wisdom's  house  he  can  not  break." 

Unto  the  fifth — "  Thy  goods  decrease  the  more 
Thou  givest ;  but  use  enlarges  Wisdom's  store." 

Unto  the  sixth — "  Wealth  tempts  to  evil  ways  ; 
But  the  desire  of  Wisdom  is  God's  praise." 

Unto  the  seventh — "  Divide  thy  wealth,  each  part 
Becomes  a  pittance  ;  give  with  open  heart 
Thy  Wisdom,  and  each  separate  gift  shall  be 
All  that  thou  hast,  yet  not  impoverish  thee." 

Unto  the  eighth — "  Wealth  can  not  keep  itself; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  steward  even  of  pelf. " 

Unto  the  ninth — "  The  camels  slowly  bring 

Thy  goods  ;  but  Wisdom  has  the  swallow's  wing." 

And  lastly,  when  the  tenth  did  question  make, 
These  were  the  ready  words  which  Ali  spake  : 


BAYARD   TAYLOR.  255 

"  Wealth  is  a  darkness  which  the  soul  should  fear ; 
But  Wisdom  is  the  lamp  that  makes  it  clear." 

Crimson  with  shame  the  questioners  withdrew, 

And  they  declared — "  The  Prophet's  words  were  true  : 

The  mouth  of  Ali  is  the  golden  door 

Of  Wisdom."     When  his  friends  to  Ali  bore 

These  words,  he  smiled  and  said  :    "  And  should  they  ask 

The  same  until  my  dying  day,  the  task 

Were  easy, — for  the  stream  from  Wisdom's  well, 

Which  God  supplies,  is  inexhaustible." 


BEDOUIN  SONG. 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee, 

On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire  ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire  ! 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry — 
I  love  thee,  I  love  but  thee. 

With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold 
And  the  stars  are  old 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold. 

Look  from  thy  window,  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ! 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below. 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night  winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 

Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

Till  the  sun  grows  cold 
And  the  stars  are  old 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold. 


256  BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven 

By  the  fever  in  my  breast 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart ! 

And  open  thy  chamber  door ! 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 

The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold 
And  the  stars  are  old 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold. 

THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

Next  to  thee,  O  fair  Gazelle  ! 

O  Beddowee  Girl,  beloved  so  well ! 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee, — 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm  : 

Next  to  ye  both  I  love  the  Tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love  and  silence  and  mystery. 

Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 

With  any  under  the  Arab  sky  : 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo's  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 

He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam's  glance, 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance  : 

A  slumbrous  motion,  a  passionate  sign, 
That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 


RICHARD    HENRY   STODDARD.  257 

Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  Beloved  may  be. 

And  when  the  warm  South-Winds  arise, 
He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs, 

Quickening  odours,  kisses  of  balm, 
That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  Palm. 

The  sun  may  flame  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

O  Tree  of  Love  !  by  that  love  of  thine, 
Teach  me  how  I  shall  soften  mine  ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  Sun, 
Whereby  the  woo'd  is  ever  won  ! 

If  I  were  a  king,  O  stately  Tree  ! 
A  likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 
In  the  court  of  my  palace  I'd  build  for  thee  : 

With  a  shaft  of  silver  burnish'd  bright, 
And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite. 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  ablaze. 
And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase. 

And  there  the  poets  in  thy  praise 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays, — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine  : 
But  none,  O  Palm  !  should  equal  mine. 

RICHARD    HENRY   STODDARD. 
1825— 


BRAHMA'S  ANSWER. 
Once,  when  the  days  were  ages. 
And  the  old  Earth  was  young, 
The  high  Gods  and  the  sages 
From  Nature's  golden  pages 
Her  open  secrets  wrung. 
II.— 17 


258  RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD. 

Each  question'd  each  to  know 
Whence  came  the   Heavens   above,  and  whence   the   Earth 
below. 

Indra,  the  endless  giver 

Of  every  gracious  thing 
The  Gods  to  him  deliver, 
Whose  bounty  is  the  river 

Of  which  they  are  the  spring, — 
Indra,  with  anxious  heart, 
Ventures  with  Vivochunu  where  Brahma  is  apart. 

"  Brahma !     Supremest  Being  ! 

By  whom  the  worlds  are  made, — 
Where  we  are  blind,  all-seeing, — 
Stable,  where  we  are  fleeing, 

Of  Life  and  Death  afraid, — • 
Instruct  us,  for  mankind. 
What  is  the  body,  Brahma  ?     O  Brahma !  what  the  mind  ?  " 

Hearing  us  though  he  heard  not, 

So  perfect  was  his  rest, 
So  vast  the  Soul  that  err'd  not. 
So  wise  the  lips  that  stirr'd  not, — 

His  hand  upon  his  breast 
He  laid,  whereat  his  face 
Was  mirror'd  in  the  river  that  girt  that  holy  place. 

They  question'd  each  the  other 
What  Brahma's  answer  meant. 

Said  Vivochunu — "  Brother  ! 

Through  Brahma  the  Great  Mother 
Hath  spoken  her  intent  : 

Man  ends  as  he  began, — 
The  shadow  on  the  water  is  all  there  is  of  Man." 

"  The  Earth  with  woe  is  cumber'd. 
And  no  man  understands  ; 


RICHARD   HENRY   STODDARD.  259 

They  see  their  days  are  number'd 
By  One  that  never  slumber'd 

Nor  stay'd  his  dreadful  hands. 
/  see  with  Brahma's  eyes  : 
The  body  is  the  shadow  that  on  the  water  Hes." 

Thus  Indra,  looking  deeper, 

With  Brahma's  self  possessed. 
So  dry  thine  eyes,  thou  weeper  ! 
And  rise  again,  thou  sleeper  ! 

The  hand  on  Brahma's  breast 
Is  his  divine  assent 
Covering  the  soul  that  dies  not.     This  is  what  Brahma  meant. 


A   JAR    OF    WINE. 

Day  and  night  my  thoughts  incline 
To  the  blandishments  of  wine  : 
Jars  were  made  to  drain,  I  think  ; 
Wine,  I  know,  was  made  to  drink. 

When  I  die  (the  day  be  far  !) 
Should  the  potters  make  a  jar 
Out  of  this  poor  clay  of  mine. 
Let  the  jar  be  fill'd  with  wine  ! 


UNDER   THE  ROSE. 

She  wears  a  rose  in  her  hair, 

At  the  twilight's  dreamy  close 
Her  face  is  fair, — how  fair 
Under  the  rose  ! 

I  steal  like  a  shadow  there, 

As  she  sits  in  rapt  repose. 
And  whisper  my  loving  prayer 
Under  the  rose. 


26o  ELIZABETH    DREW   BARSTOW    STODDARD. 

She  takes  the  rose  from  her  hair, 

And  her  colour  comes  and  goes, 
And  I, — a  lover  will  dare 
Under  the  rose. 

ELIZABETH    DREW    BARSTOW    STODDARD. 
1823— 


MERCEDES. 


Under  a  sultry  yellow  sky 

On  the  yellow  sand  I  lie  : 

The  crinkled  vapours  smite  my  brain, 

I  smoulder  in  a  fiery  pain. 

Above  the  crags  the  condor  flies, — 
He  knows  where  the  red  gold  lies. 
He  knows  where  the  diamonds  shine  : 
If  I  knew,  would  she  be  mine  ? 

Mercedes  in  her  hammock  swings, — 
In  her  court  a  palm  tree  flings 
Its  slender  shadow  on  the  ground, 
The  fountain  falls  with  silver  sound. 

Her  lips  are  like  this  cactus-cup, — 
With  my  hand  I  crush  it  up, 
I  tear  its  flaming  leaves  apart  : 
W^ould  that  I  could  tear  her  heart  ! 

Last  night  a  man  was  at  her  gate  : 
In  the  hedge  I  lay  in  wait  : 
I  saw  Mercedes  meet  him  there, 
By  the  fire-flies  in  her  hair. 

I  waited  till  the  break  of  day. 
Then  I  rose  and  stole  away ; 
But  left  my  dagger  in  her  gate  : 
Now  she  knows  her  lover's  fate. 


ADELAIDE   ANNE   PROCTER.  261 

ADELAIDE  ANNE   PROCTER. 
1825 — 1864. 


A   WOMAN'S  QUESTIONING. 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee, 

Or  place  my  hand  m  thine, 
Before  I  let  thy  Future  give 

Colour  and  form  to  mine. 
Before  I  peril  all  for  thee, 
Question  thy  soul  to-night  for  me  ! 

I  break  all  slighter  bonds,  nor  feel 

A  shadow  of  regret  : 
Is  there  one  link  within  the  Past 

That  holds  thy  spirit  yet  ? 
Or  is  thy  faith  as  clear  and  free 
As  that  which  I  can  pledge  to  thee  ? 

Does  there  within  thy  dimmest  dreams 

A  possible  future  shine 
Wherein  thy  life  could  henceforth  breathe, 

Untouch'd,  unshared  by  mine  ? 
If  so,  at  any  pain  or  cost, 
O  tell  me,  before  all  is  lost ! 

Look  deeper  still !     If  thou  canst  feel 

Within  thy  inmost  soul 
That  thou  hast  kept  a  portion  back, 

While  I  have  staked  the  whole. 
Let  no  false  pity  spare  the  blow, 
But  in  true  mercy  tell  me  so  ! 

Is  there  within  thy  heart  a  need 

That  mine  can  not  fulfil, 
One  cord  that  any  other  hand 

Could  better  wake,  or  still  ? 
Speak  now,  lest  at  some  future  day 
My  whole  life  wither  and  decay  ! 


262  LUCY    LARCOM. 

Lives  there  within  thy  nature  hid 

The  demon  spirit — Change, 
Shedding  a  passing  glory  still 

On  all  things  new  and  strange  ? 
It  may  not  be  thy  fault  alone  : 
But  shield  my  heart  against  thy  own  ! 

Couldst  thou  withdraw  thy  hand  one  day, 

And  answer  to  my  claim 
That  Fate,  and  that  to-day's  mistake. 

Not  thou,  had  been  to  blame  ? 
Some  soothe  their  conscience  thus  :  but  thou 
Wilt  surely  warn  and  save  me  now. 

Nay  !  answer  not  !     I  dare  not  hear  : 

The  words  would  come  too  late. 
Yet  I  would  spare  thee  all  remorse  : 

So  comfort  thee,  my  Fate  ! 
Whatever  on  my  heart  may  fall, 
Remember — I  would  risk  it  all. 

LUCY    LARCOM. 
1826— 


SLEEP-SONG. 
Hush  the  homeless  baby's  crying, 
Tender  Sleep  ! 
Every  folded  violet 
May  the  outer  storm  forget : 
Those  wet  lids  with  kisses  drying, 
Through  them  creep  ! 

Soothe  the  soul  that  lies  thought-weary. 
Murmurous  Sleep  ! 
Like  a  hidden  brooklet's  song. 
Rippling  gorgeous  woods  among, 
Tinkling  down  the  mountains  dreary, 
White  and  steep. 


MORTIMER   COLLINS.  263 

Breathe  thy  balm  upon  the  lonely, 
Gentle  Sleep  ! 
As  the  twilight  breezes  bless 
With  sweet  scents  the  wilderness, 
Ah,  let  warm  white  dove-wings  only 
Round  them  sweep  ! 

O'er  the  aged  pour  thy  blessing, 
Holy  Sleep  ! 
Like  a  soft  and  ripening  rain 
Falling  on  the  yellow  grain, 
For  the  glare  of  suns  oppressing, 
Pitying  weep  ! 

O'er  thy  still  seas  met  together. 
Charmed  Sleep  ! 
Hear  them  swell  a  drowsy  hymning, 
Swans  to  silvery  music  swimming. 
Floating  with  unruffled  feather 
O'er  the  deep  ! 

MORTIMER   COLLINS. 
1827 — 1876. 


SNOW  AND  SUN. 
Fast  falls  the  snow,  O  Lady  mine  ! 
Sprinkling  the  lawn  with  crystals  fine  : 
But,  by  the  Gods,  we  won't   repine, 

While  we're  together  ; 
We'll  chat  and  rhyme  and  kiss  and  dine. 

Defying  weather. 

So  stir  the  fire,  and  pour  the  wine ! 
And  let  those  sea-green  eyes  divine 
Pour  their  love-madness  into  mine  ! 

I  don't  care  whether 
'Tis  snow  or  sun  or  rain  or  shine, 

If  we're  together. 


264  WILLIAM   ALLINGHAM. 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM. 


THE    TOUCHSTONE. 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell, 
Bearing  a  Touchstone  in  his  hand  ; 
And  tested  all  things  in  the  land 
By  its  unerring  spell. 

Quick  birth  of  transformation  smote 
The  fair  to  foul,  the  foul  to  fair  ; 
Purple  nor  ermine  did  he  spare, 
Nor  scorn  the  dusty  coat. 

Of  heirloom  jewels,  prized  so  much, 
Were  many  changed  to  chips  and  clods  ; 
And  even  statues  of  the  Gods 
Crumbled  beneath  its  touch. 

Then  angrily  the  people  cried — 
The  loss  outweighs  the  profit  far  : 
Our  goods  suffice  us  as  they  are, — 
We  will  not  have  them  tried." 

And  since  they  could  not  so  avail 
To  check  his  unrelenting  quest, 
They  seized  him,  saying — "  Let  him  test 
How  real  is  our  jail !  " 

But  though  they  slew  him  with  the  sword, 
And  in  a  fire  his  Touchstone  burn'd. 
Its  doings  could  not  be  o'crturn'd, 
Its  undoings  restored. 

And  when,  to  stop  all  future  harm, 
They  strew'd  its  ashes  on  the  breeze, 
They  little  guess'd  each  grain  of  these 
Convey'd  the  perfect  charm. 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY.  265 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY. 

1S28— 


VIOLET. 

She  stood  where  I  had  used  to  wait 
For  her,  beneath  the  gaunt  old  yew, 

And  near  a  column  of  the  gate 
That  open'd  on  the  avenue. 

The  moss  that  capp'd  its  granite  ball, 
The  grey  and  yellow  lichen  stains. 

The  ivy  on  the  old  park  wall, 

Were  glossy  with  the  morning  rains. 

She  stood  amid  such  tearful  gloom  ; 

But  close  behind  her,  out  of  reach. 
Lay  many  a  mound  of  orchard  bloom. 

And  trellis'd  blossoms  of  the  peach. 

Those  peaches  blooming  to  the  South, 
Those  orchard  blossoms,  seem'd  to  me 

Like  kisses  of  her  rosy  mouth 
Revived  on  trellis  and  on  tree  : 

Kisses  that  die  not  when  the  thrill 
Of  joy  that  answer'd  them  is  mute, 

But  such  as  turn  to  use  and  fill 

The  summer  of  our  days  with  fruit. 

And  she,  impressing  half  the  sole 

Of  one  small  foot  against  the  ground, 
Stood  resting  on  the  yew-tree  bole, 

A-tiptoe  to  each  sylvan  sound- 
She,  whom  I  thought  so  still  and  shy, 

Express'd  in  every  subtle  move 
Of  lifted  hand  and  open  eye 

The  large  expectancy  of  love. 


266  ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY. 

Until,  with  all  her  dewy  hair 

Dissolved  into  a  golden  flame 
Of  sunshine  on  the  sunless  air, 

She  came  to  meet  me  as  I  came. 

But  in  her  face  no  sunshine  shone  ; 

No  sunlight,  but  the  sad  unrest 
Of  shade  that  sinks  from  zone  to  zone 

When  twilight  glimmers  in  the  West.  • 

What  grief  had  touched  her  on  the  nerve  ? 

For  grief  alone  it  is  that  stirs 
The  full  ineffable  reserve 

Of  quiet  spirits  such  as  hers. 

'Twas  this that  we  had  met  to  part ; 

That  I  was  going,  and  that  she 
Had  nothing  left  but  her  true  heart 

Made  strong  by  memories  of  me. 

What  wonder  then  she  quite  forgot 

Her  old  repression  and  controul, 
And  loosed  at  once,  and  stinted  not, 

The  tender  tumult  of  her  soul  ? 

What  wonder  that  she  droop'd  and  lay 

In  silence,  and  at  length  in  tears. 
On  that  which  should  have  been  the  stay 

And  comfort  of  her  matron  years  ? 

But  from  her  bosom,  as  she  lean'd, 

She  took  a  nestled  violet. 
And  gave  it  me  :  "  because  'twas  mean'd 

For  those  who  never  can  forget." 

This  is  the  flower  !  'tis  dry — or  wet 
With  something  I  may  call  my  own. 

Why  did  I  rouse  this  old  regret  ? 
It  irks  me,  now,  to  be  alone. 


ARTHUR  JOSEPH   MUNBY.  '^^7 

Triumphs,  indeed  !     Why,  after  all, 

My  life  has  but  a  leaden  hue  : 
My  heart  grows  like  the  heart  of  Saul, 

For  hatred,  and  for  madness  too. 

Why  sits  that  smirking  minstrel  there  ? 

I  hate  him  and  the  songs  he  sings  : 
They  only  bring  the  fond  despair 

Of  inaccessible  sweet  things. 

I  will  avoid  him  once  for  all. 

Or  slay  him  in  my  righteous  ire  ; — 

Alas  !  my  javelin  hits  the  wall, 

And  spares  the  minstrel  and  his  lyre. 

Yea!  and  the  crown  upon  my  head, 
The  crown  of  wealth  for  which  I  strove, 

Shall  fall  away  ere  I  be  dead 

To  yon  slight  boy  who  sings  of  love. 

Why  are  we  captive,  such  as  I, 

Mature  in  age  and  strong  in  will, 
To  one  who  harps  so  plaintively  ? 

I  struck  at  him  :   why  lives  he  still  ? 

Why  lives  he  still  ?     Because  the  ruth 
Of  those  pure  days  may  never  die. 

He  lives  because  his  name  is  Youth, 
Because  his  harp  is  Memory. 

MAR  V  ANERLE  Y. 

Little  Mary  Anerley,  sitting  on  the  stile  ! 
Why  do  you  blush  so  red,  and  why  so  strangely  smile  ? 
Somebody  has  been  with  you  :  somebody,  I  know. 
Left  that  sunset  on  your  cheek,  left  you  smiling  so. 

Gentle  Mary  Anerley,  waiting  by  the  wall. 

Waiting  in  the  chestnut  walk  where  the  snowy  blossoms  fall ! 


268  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

Somebody  is  coming  there  :  somebody,  I'm  sure, 

Knows  your  eyes  are  full  of  love,  knows  your  heart  is  pure. 

Happy  Mary  Anerley,  looking  O  so  fair  ! 

There's  a  ring  upon  your  hand,  and  there's  myrtle  in  your  hair. 

Somebody  is  with  you  now  :  somebody,  I  see, 

Looks  into  your  trusting  face  very  tenderly. 

Quiet  Mary  Forester,  sitting  by  the  shore. 
Rosy  faces  at  your  knee,  roses  round  the  door ! 
Somebody  is  coming  home  :  somebody,  I  know, 
Made  you  sorry  when  he  sailed.     Are  you  sorry  now  ? 


DANTE    GABRIEL   ROSSETTI. 
1828— 1882. 


THE  CARD-DEALER. 

Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet,  though  its  splendour  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coil'd  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that's  heap'd  beside  her  hand 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were  ; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her  brows 

With  magic  stillness  there  ; 
And  he  were  rich  who  would  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sits,  the  dance 

Now  breathes  its  eager  heat ; 
And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 

Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 
Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board, 

As  'twere  a  heart  that  beat. 


DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI.  269 

Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through, 

Smooth  polish'd  silent  things  ; 
And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 

In  swift  light-shadovvings, 
Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue, 

The  great  eyes  of  her  rings. 

Whom  plays  she  with  ?     With  thee  who  lovest 

Those  gems  upon  her  hand  ; 
With  me,  who  search  her  secret  brows  ; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd. 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  a  vain  strange  land. 

A  land  without  any  order, — 

Day  even  as  night  (one  saith), — 
Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 

Nor  the  sleeper  awakeneth  ; 
A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 

And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

What  be  her  cards  ?  you  ask.     Even  these  : 

The  heart,  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed  ;  the  diamond, 

Skill'd  to  make  base  seem  brave  ; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark  ; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

And  do  you  ask  what  game  she  plays  ? 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won  ; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still ;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun  : 
But  'tis  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o*  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls  ; — she  knows 
The  card  that  foUovveth  : 


270  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 

Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  call'd  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath  : 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou'lt  learn  her  tongue, 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death. 

FIRST  LOVE  REMEMBERED. 
Peace  in  her  chamber  !  whereso'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place  : 
The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such  grace 

As  morning  meadows  wear. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 
A  maid's,  who  dreams  alone, 

As  from  her  orchard  gate  the  moon 
Its  ceiling  show'd  at  night  : 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense, 

As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  niaidenhood  awoke 

To  married  innocence  : 

There  still  the  thanks  unheard  await 

The  unconscious  gift  bequeath'd, — 

For  there  my  soul  this  hour  has  breathed 
An  air  inviolate. 

L/LITII. 
Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 
(The  witch  beloved  before  the  gift  of  Eve) 
That,  ere  the  Snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 
And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 
And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old. 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative. 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  net  she  can  weave. 
Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  :   for  where 
Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith  !  whom  shed  scent 


DANTE   GABRIEL   ROSSETTI.  2/1 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ? 
Lo  !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burn'd  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck  bent, 
And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 

TRUE    WOMAN. 

To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than  Spring ; 

A  bodily  beauty  more  acceptable 

Than  the  wild  rose-tree's  arch  that  crowns  the  fell ; 

To  be  an  essence  more  environing 

Than  wine's  drain'd  juice  ;  a  music  ravishing 

More  than  the  passionate  pulse  of  Philomel ; — 

To  be  all  this  'neath  one  soft  bosom's  swell 

That  is  the  flower  of  life  : — how  strange  a  thing  ! 

How  strange  a  thing  to  be  what  man  can  know 

But  as  a  sacred  secret !     Heaven's  own  screen 

Hides  her  soul's  purest  depth  and  loveliest  glow, — 

Closely  withheld  as  all  things  most  unseen  : 

The  wave-bower'd  pearl, — the  heart-shape  seal  of  green 

That  flecks  the  snowdrop  underneath  the  snow. 

LOST  DAYS. 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day. 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squander'd  and  still  to  pay  ? 
Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 
Or  such  spill'd  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 
I  do  not  see  them  here  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, — 
Each  one  a  murder'd  self,  with  low  last  breath  : 
"  I  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ?  " 
"  And  I — and  1 — thyself"  (lo  !  each  one  saith) — 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity." 


2/2  CHRISTINA   GEORGINA   ROSSETTI. 

CHRISTINA    GEORGINA   ROSSETTI. 

1830— 


SONG. 


When  I  am  dead,  my  Dearest ! 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me  ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

No  shady  cypress-tree  ! 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me. 

With  showers  and  dew-drops  wet ; 
And,  if  thou  wilt,  remember  ! 

And,  if  thou  wilt,  forget ! 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain, 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on  as  if  in  pain  : 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, — 

And  haply  may  forget. 


THE  BOURNE. 

Underneath  the  growing  grass, 
Underneath  the  living  flowers. 
Deeper  than  the  sound  of  showers, 
There  we  shall  not  count  the  hours 
By  the  shadows  as  they  pass. 

Youth  and  health  will  be  but  vain, 
Beauty  reckon'd  of  no  worth, — 
There  a  very  little  girth 
Can  hold  round  what  once  the  earth 
Seem'd  too  narrow  to  contain. 


JEAN  INGELOW.  2/3 

JEAN   INGELOW. 

1830— 


EXPECTING. 


I  lean'd  out  of  window,  I  smell'd  the  white  clover  ; 
Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate  : 
Now,  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my  one  lover  : — 
Hush,  nightingale  !  hush  ;     O  sweet  nightingale  !  wait, 

Till  I  listen  and  hear 

If  a  step  draweth  near! 

For  my  Love  he  is  late. 

The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 
A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree, 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer  : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me ! 

You  night-moths  that  hover  where  honey  brims  over 
From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle,  or  sleep! 
You  glow-worms,  shine  out  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep  ! 

Ah,  my  sailor  !  make  haste  ! 

For  the  time  runs  to  waste 

And  my  love  lieth  deep. 

Too  deep  for  swift  telling  :  and  yet,  my  one  lover  ! 

I've  conn'd  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to-night. 

By  the  sycamore  pass'd  he  and  through  the  white  clover, 

Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashion'd  took  flight. 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more, 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 
II.— 18 


274  EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 

EDMUND   CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 
1833- 


THE  DOORSTEP. 

The  conference  meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 

To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past, 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level  musket-flashes  bitten. 
Than  I,  who  stepp'd  before  them  all 

Who  long'd  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 

But  no !  she  blush'd  and  took  my  arm  : 
We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 

And  started  tow'rd  the  Maple  Farm 
Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, — 
'Twas  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story  ; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seem'd  all  transform'd  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  lields  were  gleaming 

By  hood  and  tippet  shelter'd  sweet. 

Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff 

(O  sculptor!  if  you  could  but  mould  it) 

So  lightly  touch'd  my  jacket-cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  there  with  me  alone, — 

'Twas  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended  : 

At  last  we  reach'd  the  foot-worn  stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 


EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN. 

The  old  folks  too  were  almost  home  : 
Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  finger'd, 

We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 
Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  linger'd. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood, 

And  with  a  "  Thank  you,  Ned  !  "  dissembled  ; 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 

With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  pass'd  kindly  overhead, 

The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it. 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said — 

"  Come,  now  or  never  do  it !  do  it !" 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister, — 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 

Sweet  rosy  darling  mouth — I  kiss'd  her. 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  love  :   yet  still, 

O  listless  woman!  weary  lover! 
To  feel  once  more  that  fresh  wild  thrill 

I'd  give But  who  can  live  youth  over  ? 

TO Uy OURS  AMOUR. 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 
At  what  age  does  love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen  ! 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair  : 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 


275 


2-6  EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN. 

*'  O  I  "  the  rosy  lips  reply, — 
"  I  can't  teU  you  if  I  try  : 

'Tis  so  long  I  can't  reniember, — 

Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I  !  " 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ! 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
\Mien  does  hoary  love  expire  ? 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  bum  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  stUl  soft  hands  to  press. 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face  ! 

'■'  Ah  !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, — 

"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die. 

But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken 

Ask  some  older  sage  than  I." 


MIKE. 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word, 

Close,  close  in  my  arms  thou  art  clinging ; 

Alone  for  my  ear  thou  art  singing 

A  song  which  no  stranger  hath  heard  : 

But  afar  from  me  j-et,  like  a  bird, 

Thy  soul  in  some  region  unstirr'd 

On  its  mystical  circuit  is  wanging. 

Thou  art  mine,  I  have  made  thee  mine  own,- 
Henceforth  we  are  mingled  for  ever  : 
But  in  vain,  all  in  vain  I  endeavour. 
Though  round  thee  my  garlands  are  thrown 
And  thou  j-ieldest  thy  lips  and  thy  zone, 
To  master  the  spell  that  alone 
My  hold  on  thy  being  can  sever. 


GEORGE  ARNOLD.  2/7 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  come  unto  me  : 

But  thy  soul,  when  I  strive  to  be  near  it. 

The  innermost  fold  of  thy  spirit, 

Is  as  far  from  my  grasp,  is  as  free, 

As  the  stars  from  the  mountain-tops  be, 

As  the  pearl  in  the  depths  of  the  sea 

From  the  portionless  king  who  would  wear  it. 

GEORGE  ARNOLD. 

1834— 1865. 


GLORIA. 

IN   TrME   OF  WAR. 

The  laurels  shine  in  the  morning  sun. 

The  tall  grass  shakes  its  glittering  spear?, 

And  the  webs  the  spiders  last  night  spun 
Are  threaded  with  pearly  tears. 

At  peace  with  the  world  and  all  therein, 
I  walk  in  the  fields  this  summer  mom  : 

What  should  I  know  of  sorrow  or  sin 
Among  the  laurels  and  corn  ? 

But  hark  I  through  the  corn  a  murmur  comes,— 
'Tis  growing,  'tis  swelling,  it  rises  high  : 

The  thunder  of  guns  and  the  roll  of  drums, 
And  an  army  marching  by. 

Away  vrvCa.  the  sloth  of  peace  and  ease  ! 

'Tis  a  nation's  voice  that  seems  to  call  : 
Who  cares  for  aught  in  times  like  these 

Save  to  win,  or  else  to  fall  ? 

Farewell,  O  shining  laurels  !  now, 

I  go  with  the  army  marching  by  : 
Your  leaves,  should  I  win,  may  deck  my  brow,- 

Or  my  bier,  if  I  should  die. 


2/8  JOHN   NICHOL. 

JOHN    NICHOL. 
1833- 


IMPA  TIENCE. 


Our  life  is  spent  in  little  things, 

In  little  cares  our  hearts  are  drovvn'd  ; 

We  move,  with  heavy-laden  wings, 
In  the  same  narrow  round. 

We  waste  on  wars  and  petty  strife, 
And  squander  in  a  thousand  ways, 

The  fire  that  should  have  been  the  life 
And  power  of  after  days. 

We  toil  to  make  an  outward  show, 
And  only  now  and  then  reveal 

How  far  the  under  currents  flow 
Of  all  we  think  and  feel. 

Mining  in  caves  of  ancient  lore, 

Unweaving  endless  webs  of  thought, 

We  do  what  has  been  done  of  yore  : 
And  so  we  come  to  nought. 

The  Spirit  longs  for  wider  scope. 
And  room  to  let  its  fountains  play 

Ere  it  has  lost  its  love  and  hope, 
Tamed  down  or  worn  away. 

I  wander  by  the  cloister  walls, 

My  fancy  fretting  to  be  free 
As,  through  the  twilight,  voices  call 

From  mountain  and  from  sea. 

Forgive  me  if  I  feel  oppress'd 
By  Custom,  lord  of  all  and  me  ! 

My  soul  springs  upward,  seeking  rest. 
And  cries  for  liberty. 


LEWIS   MORRIS.  2/9 

LEWIS   MORRIS. 
1833— 


LOVE'S  S UICIDE. 

Alas  for  me  that  my  love  is  dead  ! 
Sunk  fathom-deep,  and  .may  not  rise  again  : 
Self-murder'd,  vanish'd,  fled  beyond  recall : 
And  this  is  all  my  pain. 

'Tis  not  that  She  I  loved  is  gone  from  me  ; 
She  lives,  and  grows  more  lovely  day  by  day  : 
Not  Death  could  kill  my  love, — but,  though  She  lives, 
My  love  has  died  away. 

Nor  was  it  that  a  form  or  face  more  fair 
Forswore  my  troth,  for  so  my  love  had  proved 
Eye-deep  alone,  not  rooted  in  the  soul  : 
And  'twas  not  thus  I  loved. 

Nor  that,  by  too  long  dalliance  with  delight 
And  recompense  of  love,  my  love  had  grown 
Surfeit  with  sweets,  like  some  tired  bee  that  flags 
'Mid  roses  overblown. 

None  of  these  slew  my  love  ;  but  some  cold  wind, 
Some  chill  of  doubt,  some  shadowy  dissidence, 
Born  out  of  too  great  concord,  did  o'ercloud 
Love's  subtle  inner  sense. 

So  one  sweet  changeless  chord  too  long  sustain'd 
Falls  at  its  close  into  a  lower  tone  ; 
So  the  swift  train,  sped  on  the  long  straight  way, 
Sways  and  is  overthrown. 

For  difference  is  the  soul  of  life  and  love. 
And  not  the  barren  oneness  weak  souls  prize  : 
Rest  springs  from  strife,  and  dissonant  chords  beget 
Divincst  harmonies. 


280  HELEN   FISKE   JACKSON. 

HELEN    FISKE   JACKSON. 
1833-S— 


CORONATION. 


At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  Noon 

Wove  filmy  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 
Into  the  drowsy  snare  too  soon 

The  guards  fell,  one  by  one. 

Through  the  king's  gate  unquestion'd  then 
A  beggar  went,  and  laugh'd — "  This  brings 

Me  chance  at  last  to  see  if  men 
Fare  better,  being  kings." 

The  king  sat  bow'd  beneath  his  crown, 
Propping  his  face  with  listless  hand, 

Watching  the  hour-glass  shifting  down 
Too  slow  its  shining  sand. 

Poor  man  !  what  wouldst  thou  have  of  me  ?  " 

The  beggar  turn'd  and,  pitying, 
Replied,  like  one  in  dream — "  Of  thee 

Nothing  :   I  want  the  king." 

Uprose  the  king,  and  from  his  head 
Shook  off  the  crown  and  threw  it  by  : 

O  man  !  thou  must  have  known,"  he  said, 
"  A  greater  king  than  L" 

Through  all  the  gates  unquestion'd  then 
Went  king  and  beggar,  hand  in  hand  : 

Whisper'd  the  king — "  Shall  I  know  when 
Before  his  throne  I  stand  ?  " 

The  beggar  laugh'd  (free  winds  in  haste 
Were  wiping  from  the  king's  hot  brow 

The  crimson  lines  the  crown  had  traced): 
"  This  is  his  presence  now  !  " 


WILLIAM   MORRIS. 

At  the  king's  gate  the  crafty  Noon 
Unwove  its  yellow  nets  of  sun  ; 

Out  of  their  sleep  in  terror  soon 
The  guards  waked,  one  by  one. 

"  Ho  here  !  ho  there  !  has  no  man  seen 
The  king  ?  "  the  cry  ran  to  and  fro  : 
Beggar  and  king  they  laugh'd,  I  ween, 
The  laugh  that  free  men  know. 

On  the  king's  gate  the  moss  grew  grey ; 

The  king  came  not.     They  call'd  him  dead  ; 
And  made  his  eldest  son  one  day 

Slave  in  his  father's  stead. 

WILLIAM    MORRIS. 
1834- 


281 


SO.VG. 
Fair  is  the  night,  and  fair  the  day, 
Now  April  is  forgot  of  May, 
Now  into  June  May  falls  away  : 
Fair  day  !  fair  night !     O  give  me  back 
The  tide  that  all  fair  things  did  lack 
Except  my  Love,  except  my  Sweet ! 

Blow  back,  O  wind  !  thou  art  not  kind, 
Though  thou  art  sweet  :  thou  hast  no  mind 
Her  hair  about  my  Sweet  to  bind. 

0  flowery  sward  !  though  thou  art  bright, 

1  praise  thee  not  for  thy  delight, — 
Thou  hast  not  kiss'd  her  silver  feet. 

Thou  know'st  her  not,  O  rustling  tree  ! 
What  dost  thou  then  to  shadow  me, 
Whose  shade  her  breast  did  never  see  ? 
O  flowers  !  in  vain  ye  bow  adown  : 
Ye  have  not  felt  her  odorous  gown 
Brush  past  your  heads  my  lips  to  meet. 


282  WILLIAM   MORRIS. 

Flow  on,  great  river  !  thou  mayst  deem 

That  far  away,  a  summer  stream. 

Thou  saw'st  her  limbs  amidst  the  gleam, 

And  kiss'd  her  foot,  and  kiss'd  her  knee  : 

Yet  get  thee  swift  unto  the  sea  ! 

With  nought  of  true  thou  wilt  me  greet. 

And  Thou  that  men  call  by  my  name  ! 
O  helpless  One  !  hast  thou  no  shame 
That  thou  must  even  look  the  same 
As  while  agone,  as  while  agone 
When  Thou  and  She  were  left  alone, 
And  hands  and  lips  and  tears  did  meet  ? 

Grow  weak  and  pine,  lie  down  to  die, 

O  body  !  in  thy  misery, 

Because  short  time  and  sweet  goes  by. 

O  foolish  heart !  how  weak  thou  art  : 

Break,  break,  because  thou  needs  must  part 

From  thine  own  Love,  from  thine  own  Sweet  ! 


BEFORE  OUR  LADY  CAME. 

Before  our  Lady  came  on  earth 
Little  there  was  of  joy  or  mirth  : 
About  the  borders  of  the  sea 
The  sea-folk  wander'd  heavily  ; 
About  the  wintry  river  side 
The  weary  fishers  would  abide. 

Alone,  within  the  weaving-room. 
The  girls  would  sit  before  the  loom, 
And  sing  no  song  and  play  no  play, — 
Alone,  from  dawn  to  hot  mid-day, 
Froni  mid-day  unto  evening. 
The  men  a-ficld  would  work,  nor  sing 
'Mid  weary  thoughts  of  man  and  God,- 
Before  thy  feet  the  wet  ways  trod. 


WILLIAM   MORRIS.  283 

Unkiss'd  the  merchant  bore  his  care, 
Unkiss'd  the  knights  went  out  to  war, 
Unkiss'd  the  mariner  came  home, 
Unkiss'd  the  minstrel  men  did  roam. 

Or  in  the  stream  the  maids  would  stare, 
Nor  know  why  they  were  made  so  fair  : 
Their  yellow  locks,  their  bosoms  white. 
Their  limbs  well-wrought  for  all  delight, 
Seem'd  foolish  things  that  waited  death, — 
As  hopeless  as  the  flowers  beneath 
The  weariness  of  unkiss'd  feet  : 
No  life  was  bitter  then,  or  sweet. 

Therefore,  O  Venus  !  well  may  we 
Praise  the  green  ridges  of  the  sea 
O'er  which,  upon  a  happy  day. 
Thou  camest  to  take  our  shame  away. 
Well  may  we  praise  the  curdling  foam 
Amidst  the  which  thy  feet  did  bloom — 
Flowers  of  the  Gods  ;  the  yellow  sand 
They  kiss'd  atwixt  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  bee-beset  ripe-seeded  grass 
Through  which  thy  fine  limbs  first  did  pass  ; 
The  purple-dusted  butterfly 
First  blown  against  thy  quivering  thigh  ; 
The  first  red  rose  that  touch'd  thy  side, 
And  overblown  and  fainting  died  ; 
The  flickering  of  the  orange  shade 
Where  first  in  sleep  thy  limbs  were  laid  ; 
The  happy  day's  sweet  life  and  death. 
Whose  air  first  caught  thy  balmy  breath  : — 
Yea !  all  these  things  well  praised  may  be, 
But  with  what  words  shall  we  praise  Thee  ? 
O  Venus  !  O  thou  Love  alive ! 
Born  to  give  peace  to  souls  that  strive. 


284  JOHN   JAMES   PIATT, 

JOHN   JAMES   PIATT. 

1835- 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND    THE  SPRING-LEA  VES. 

Underneath  the  beechen  tree 
All  things  fall  in  love  with  me  ! 
Birds,  that  sing  so  sweetly,  sung 
Ne'er  more  sweet  when  I  was  young ; 
Some  sweet  breeze,  I  will  not.  see, 
Steals  to  kiss  me  lovingly  ; 
All  the  leaves  so  blithe  and  bright, 
Dancing,  sing  in  Maying  light 
Over  me — "  At  last,  at  last. 
He  has  stolen  from  the  Past." 

Wherefore,  leaves  !  so  gladly  mad  ? 
I  am  rather  sad  than  glad. 

"  He  is  the  merry  child  that  play'd 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade 
Years  ago,  whom  all  things  bright 
Gladden'd,  glad  with  his  delight." 

I  am  not  the  child  that  play'd 

Underneath  your  beechen  shade  ; 

I  am  not  the  boy  ye  sung 

Songs  to,  in  lost  fairy  tongue. 

He  read  fairy  dreams  below, 

Legends  leaves  and  flowers  must  know  ; 

He  dream'd  fairy  dreams,  and  ye 

Changed  to  fairies,  in  your  glee 

Dancing,  singing  from  the  tree  ; 

And  awaken'd  fairy-land 

Circled  childhood's  magic  wand. 

Joy  swell'd  his  heart,  joy  kiss'd  his  brow  : 

I  am  following  funerals  now. 

Fairy  shores  from  Time  depart ; 


CELIA   LEIGHTON   THAXTER.  285 

Lost  horizons  flush  my  heart  : 
I  am  not  the  child  that  play'd 
Underneath  your  beechen  shade. 

"  'Tis  the  merry  child  that  play'd 
Underneath  our  beechen  shade 
Years  ago,  whom  all  things  bright 
Loved,  made  glad  by  his  delight." 

Ah !  the  bright  leaves  will  not  know 
That  an  old  man  dreams  below. 
No  !  they  will  not  hear  nor  see, 
Clapping  their  hands  at  finding  me, 
Singing,  dancing  from  their  tree. 
Ah  !  their  happy  voices  steal 
Time  away  :  again  I  feel. 
While  they  sing  to  me  apart. 
The  lost  child  come  in  my  heart  : 
In  the  enchantment  of  the  Past 
The  old  man  is  the  child  at  last. 


CELIA   LEIGHTON   THAXTER. 
1835- 


MEDRAKE   AND    OSPREY. 

Medrake,   waving   wide    wings     low   o'er    the   breeze-rippled 

bight ! 
Osprey,  soaring  superb  overhead  in  the  fathomless  blue, 
Graceful,   and  fearless,   and  strong  !    do  you  thrill  with  the 

morning's  delight 
Even  as  I  ?     Brings  the  sunshine  a  message  of  beauty  for  you  ? 

O  the  blithe  breeze  of  the  West,  blowing  sweet  from  the  far 

away  land, 
Bowing   the  grass   heavy-headed,   thick-crowding,   so  slender 

and  proud ! 


286  BYRON   FORCEYTHE   WILLSON. 

O  the  warm  sea  sparkling  over  with  waves  by  the   swift  wind 

fann'd  ! 
O  the  wide  sky  crystal  clear,  with  bright   islands  of  delicate 

cloud  ! 

Feel  you  the  waking  of  life  in  the  world  lock'd  so  long  in  the 
frost  ? 

Beautiful  birds,  with  the  light  flashing  bright  from  your  ban- 
ner-like wings  ! 

Osprey,  soaring  so  high,  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  half  lost ! 

Medrake,  hovering  low  where  the  sandpiper's  sweet  note 
rings ! 

Nothing  am  I  to  you,  a  blot  perhaps  on  the  day ; 

Nought  do  I  add  to  your  joy,  but  precious  you  are  in  my 
sight ; 

And  you  seem  on  your  glad  wings  to  lift  me  up  into  the  ether 
away  ; 

And  the  morning  divine  is  more  radiant  because  of  your  glori- 
ous flight. 

BYRON    FORCEYTHE   WILLSON. 

1837— 1867. 


THE  E STRAY. 
"  Now  tell  me,  my  merry  woodman  ! 

Why  standest  so  aghast  ?  " — 
"  My  lord  !  'twas  a  beautiful  creature 

That  hath  but  just  gone  past !  " — 

"  A  creature, — what  kind  of  a  creature  ?  " — 
"  Nay,  now,  but  I  do  not  know." — 

"  Humph  !  what  did  it  make  you  think  of?  " 
"  The  sunshine,  or  the  snow." — 

"  I  shall  overtake  my  horse  then." — 
The  woodman  open'd  his  eye  : 
The  gold  fell  all  around  him  ; 
And  a  rainbow  spanu'd  the  sky. 


WILLIAM   WINTER.  2  8/ 


AUTUMN-SONG. 

In  Spring  the  poet  is  glad, 

And  in  Summer  the  poet  is  gay  ; 
But  in  Autumn  the  poet  is  sad, 

And  has  something  sad  to  say : 

For  the  wind  moans  in  the  wood, 

And  the  leaf  drops  from  the  tree, 
And  the  cold  rain  falls  on  the  graves  of  the  good, 

And  the  mist  comes  up  from  the  sea  : 

And  the  Autumn  Songs  of  the  poet's  soul 

Are  set  to  the  passionate  grief 
Of  winds  that  sough  and  bells  that  toll 

The  dirge  of  the  Falling  Leaf. 

WILLIAM   WINTER. 
1836- 


LOVE'S  QUEEN. 

He  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold  : 
I  would  not  have  thee  come  too  nigh. 

The  sun's  gold  would  not  seem  pure  gold 
Unless  the  sun  were  in  the  sky  : 

To  take  him  thence  and  chain  him  near 

Would  make  his  beauty  disappear. 

He  keeps  his  state  :  do  thou  keep  thine, 
And  shine  upon  me  from  afar  ! 

So  shall  I  bask  in  light  divine 

That  falls  from  Love's  own  guiding-star 

So  shall  thy  eminence  be  high, 

And  so  my  passion  shall  not  die. 

But  all  my  life  shall  reach  its  hands 
Of  lofty  longing  tow'rd  thy  face, 


288  WILLIAM    WINTER. 

And  be  as  one  who  speechless  stands 

In  rapture  at  some  perfect  grace  : 
My  love,  my  hope,  my  all  shall  be 
To  look  to  heaven  and  look  to  thee. 

Thine  eyes  shall  be  the  heavenly  lights  ; 

Thy  voice  shall  be  the  summer  breeze, 
What  time  it  sways,  on  moonlit  nights. 

The  murmuring  tops  of  leafy  trees  ; 
And  I  will  touch  thy  beauteous  form 
In  June's  red  roses  rich  and  warm. 

But  thou — thyself — shalt  not  come  down 

From  that  pure  region  far  above  ; 
But  keep  thy  throne  and  wear  thy  crown. 

Queen  of  my  heart  and  queen  of  love  : 
A  monarch  in  thy  realm  complete, 
And  I  a  monarch  at  thy  feet ! 


AFTER  ALL. 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard. 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done  ; 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage-door  the  grandsire 
Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy  chair, 

While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 
Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  press'd, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 
The  faltering  echoes  come 


WILLIAM   WINTER.  289 

Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 
And  the  ratthng  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks  in  a  whisper  : 

"  The  end  no  man  can  see, — 
But  we  give  him  to  his  Country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee  !  " — 

The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour. 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still ; 
There's  a  nameless  grave  on  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits  alone  ; 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 

THE  LAST  SCENE. 

Here  she  lieth,  white  and  chill  : 

Put  your  hand  upon  her  brow  ? 
Her  sad  heart  is  very  still, 

And  she  does  not  know  you  now. 

Ah  !  the  grave's  a  quiet  bed  : 

She  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep, 
And  the  tears  that  you  may  shed 

Will  not  wake  her, — therefore  weep  ! 

Weep  !  for  you  have  wrought  her  woe ; 

Mourn  !  she  mourn'd  and  died  for  you : 
Ah  !  too  late  we  come  to  know 

What  is  false  and  what  is  true. 
II.— 19 


290  THOMAS   EAiLEY   ALDRICH. 

THOMAS   BAILEY   ALDRICH. 


PALABRAS  CARINOSAS. 
Good-night !     I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things  ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings. 
Good-night  to  fond  up-lifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair. 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  ! 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me, — then 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again. 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  Love  ! 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  Good-night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

Y'ou  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

Y^ou  would  have  blush'd  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago. 

What !  both  these  snowy  hands  ?  ah,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again. 

TIGER-LILIES. 
I  like  not  lady-slippers, 
Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms. 
Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 

Red,  or  white  as  snow  ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  grow. 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender ; 

Their  mouths  are  dash'd  with  carmine ; 


RICHARD    GARNETT.  29I 

And,  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 
They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful : 
They  are  Circassian  women, 
The  favourites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  garden  walks. 

And  when  the  rain  is  falling, 

I  sit  beside  the  window 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, — 

How  they  burn  and  glow  ! 
O  for  the  burning  lilies. 
The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies 

That  in  our  garden  grow  ! 

RICHARD    GARNETT. 

1835- 


VI O  LETS. 

Cold  blows  the  wind  against  the  hill. 

And  cold  upon  the  plain  ; 
I  sit  me  by  the  bank,  until 

The  violets  come  again. 

Here  sat  we  when  the  grass  was  set 
With  violets  shining  through, 

And  leafing  branches  spread  a  net 
To  hold  a  sky  of  blue. 

The  trumpet  clamour'd  from  the  plain, 

The  cannon  rent  the  sky  ; 
I  cried — O  Love  !  come  back  again 

Before  the  violets  die  ! 

But  they  are  dead  upon  the  hill. 

And  he  upon  the  plain  ; — 
I  sit  me  by  the  bank  until 

My  violets  come  again. 


292  THOMAS   ASHE. 

FADING  LEAF  AND  FALLEN  LEAF. 

Said  Fading-Leaf  to  Fallen-Leaf — 

I  toss  alone  on  a  forsaken  tree, 

It  rocks  and  cracks  with  every  gust  that  rocks 

Its  straining  bulk  :  say  !  how  is  it  with  thee  ? 

Said  Fallen-Leaf  to  Fading-Leaf — 

A  heavy  foot  went  by,  an  hour  ago  : 

Crush'd  into  clay,  I  stain  the  way  ; 

The  loud  Wind  calls  me,  and  I  can  not  go. 

Said  Fading-Leaf  to  Fallen-Leaf — 

Death  lessons  Life,  a  ghost  is  ever  wise  : 

Teach  me  a  way  to  live  till  I\Iay 

Laughs  fair  with  fragrant  lips  and  loving  eyes ! 

Said  Fallen- Leaf  to  Fading-Leaf — 

Hast  loved  fair  eyes  and  lips  of  gentle  breath  ? 

Fade  then,  and  fall !  thou  hast  had  all 

That  Life  can  give  ;  ask  somewhat  now  of  Death ! 


THOAIAS   ASHE. 
1836- 


DALL  YING. 


Dear  Love  !  I  have  not  ask'd  you  yet ; 

Nor  heard  you,  murmuring  low 
As  wood-doves  by  a  rivulet. 

Say  if  it  shall  be  so. 

The  colour  in  your  cheek,  which  plays 

Like  an  imprison'd  bliss, 
In  its  unwordcd  language  says — 

"  Speak,  and  I'll  answer  Yes  !  " 

Sec  !  pluck  this  flower  of  wood-sorrel, 
And  twine  it  in  your  hair  ! 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE.  293 

Its  woodland  grace  becomes  you  well, 
And  makes  my  Rose  more  fair. 

Oft  you  sit  'mid  the  daises  here, 

And  I  lie  at  your  feet ; 
Yet  day  by  day  goes  by, — I  fear 

To  break  a  trance  so  sweet. 

As  some  first  Autumn  tint  looks  strange, 

And  wakes  a  strange  regret. 
Would  your  soft  Yes  our  loving  change  ? — 

Love  !  I'll  not  ask  you  yet. 

ALGERNON    CHARLES   SWINBURNE. 
1837— 


BEFORE  THE  MIRROR. 

(  Written  under  a  picture.) 
I 

White  rose  in  red  rose  garden 

Is  not  so  white  ; 
Snowdrops,  that  plead  for  pardon 

And  pine  for  fright 
Because  the  hard  East  blows 
Over  their  maiden  rows, 
Grow  not  as  this  face  grows  from  pale  to  bright. 

Behind  the  veil,  forbidden. 

Shut  up  from  sight. 
Love  !  is  there  sorrow  hidden  ? 

Is  there  delight? 
Is  joy  thy  dower,  or  grief? 
White  rose  of  weary  leaf! 
Late  rose  whose  life  is  brief,  whose  loves  are  light ! 

Soft  snows,  that  hard  winds  harden 
Till  each  flake  bite. 


294  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

Fill  all  the  flowerlcss  garden 
Whose  flowers  took  flight 
Long  since,  when  summer  ceased, 
And  men  rose  up  from  feast, 
And  warm  West  wind  grew  East,  and  warm  day  night. 


"  Come  snow,  come  wind,  or  thunder 
High  up  in  air, 
I  watch  my  face  and  wonder 

At  my  bright  hair  : 
Nought  else  exalts  or  grieves 
The  rose  at  heart,  that  heaves 
With  love  of  her  own  leaves  and  lips  that  pair. 

"  She  knows  not  loves  that  kiss'd  her 
She  knows  not  where  : 
Art  thou  the  ghost  ?  my  sister  ! — 

White  sister  there  ! 
Am  I  the  ghost  ? — who  knows  ? 
My  hand,  a  fallen  rose, 
Lies  snow-white  on  white  snows,  and  takes  no  care. 

"  I  can  not  see  what  pleasures 
Or  what  pains  were  ; 
What  pale  new  loves  and  treasures 

New  years  will  bear  ; 
What  beam  will  fall,  what  shower  ; 
What  grief  or  joy  for  dower  : 
But  one  thing  knows  the  flower, — the  flower  is  fair." 

3 

Glad,  but  not  flush'd  with  gladness, 

Since  joys  go  by, — 
Sad,  but  not  bent  with  sadness, 

Since  sorrows  die, — 
Deep  in  the  gleaming  glass 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE.  295 

She  sees  all  past  things  pass, 
And  all  sweet  life  that  was  lie  down,  and  lie. 

There  glowing  ghosts  of  flowers 

Draw  down,  draw  nigh  ; 
And  wings  of  swift  spent  hours 

Take  flight  and  fly  ; 
She  sees  by  formless  gleams, 
She  hears  across  cold  streams. 
Dead  mouths  of  many  dreams  that  sing  and  sigh. 

Face  fallen  and  white  throat  lifted. 

With  sleepless  eye 
She  sees  old  loves  that  drifted, 

She  knew  not  why  ; — 
Old  loves  and  faded  fears 
Float  down  a  stream  that  hears 
The  flowing  of  all  men's  tears  beneath  the  sky. 

CHORUS. 

When  the  hounds  of  Spring  are  on  Winter's  traces, 

The  Mother  of  Months  in  meadow  or  plain 

Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 

And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amoi-ous 

Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 

For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongue-less  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come,  vi'ith  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect !  Lady  of  Light ! 

With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers, 

With  a  clamour  of  waters,  and  with  might : 

Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  Thou  most  fleet ! 

Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet : 

For  the  faint  East  quickens,  the  wan  West  shivers, 

Round  the  feet  of  the  Day  and  the  feet  of  the  Night. 


296  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

Where  shall  we  find  her  ?  how  shall  we  sing  to  her, 

Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  ? 

O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring  to  her, 

Fire,  or  the  strength  of  the  streams  that  spring  ! 

For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 

As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  : 

For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her. 

And  the  Southwest-wind  and  the  West-wind  sing. 

For  Winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 
And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 
The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover ; 
The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins  ; 
And  time  remember'd  is  grief  forgotten  ; 
And  frosts  are  slain,  and  flowers  begotten; 
And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 
Blossom  by  blossom  the  Spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes ; 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  traveling  foot ; 
The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 
And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire  ; 
And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre  ; 
And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 
The  chestnut  husk  at  the  chestnut  root. 

And  Pan  by  noon,  and  Bacchus  by  night, 
Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing,  and  fills  with  delight 
The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And,  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide, 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  God  pursuing,  the  Maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 
Over  her  eyebrows,  hiding  her  eyes  ; 


ALGERNON   CHARLES   SWINBURNE.  297 

The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs ; 

The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 

But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 

To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 

The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 


THE  SUNDEW. 

A  little  marsh-plant,  yellow  green, 
And  prick'd  at  lip  with  tender  red  ! 
Tread  close,  and  either  way  you  tread 
Some  faint  black  water  jets  between. 
Lest  you  should  bruise  the  curious  head. 

A  live  thing,  may  be  :  who  shall  know  ? 
The  Summer  knows,  and  suffers  it  : 
For  the  cool  moss  is  thick  and  sweet 
Each  side,  and  saves  the  blossom  so 
That  it  lives  out  the  long  June  heat. 

The  deep  scent  of  the  heather  burns 
About  it ;  breathless  though  it  be, 
Bow  down  and  worship  !  more  than  we 
Is  the  least  flower  whose  life  returns, 
Least  weed  renascent  in  the  sea. 

We  are  vex'd  and  cumber'd  in  Earth's  sight 
With  wants,  with  many  memories  : 
These  see  their  Mother  what  she  is, — 
Glad-growing,  till  August  leave  more  bright 
The  apple-colour'd  cranberries. 

Wind  blows  and  bleaches  the  strong  grass. 
Blown  all  one  way  to  shelter  it 
From  trample  of  stray'd  kine  (with  feet 
Felt  heavier  than  the  moor-hen  was), 
Stray'd  up  past  patches  of  wild  wheat. 


298  ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 

You  call  it  Sundew  :  how  it  grows, 
If  with  its  colour  it  have  breath, 
If  life  taste  sweet  to  it,  if  death 
Pain  its  soft  petal,  no  man  knows  : 
Man  has  no  sight  nor  sense  that  saith. 

My  Sundew  !  grown  of  gentle  days, 
In  these  green  miles  the  Spring  begun 
Thy  growth  ere  April  had  half  done 
With  the  soft  secret  of  her  ways. 
Or  June  made  ready  for  the  Sun. 

0  red-lipp'd  mouth  of  marsh-flower ! 

1  have  a  secret  halved  with  thee  : 
The  name  that  is  love's  name  to  me 
Thou  knowest,  and  the  face  of  Her 
Who  is  my  festival  to  see. 

The  hard  sun,  as  thy  petals  knew, 
Colour'd  the  heavy  moss-water  : — 
Thou  wert  not  worth  green  midsummer 
Nor  fit  to  live  to  August  blue, 
O  Sundew  !  not  remembering  Her. 

RONDEL. 

These  many  years,  since  we  began  to  be, 
What  have  the  Gods  done  with  us  ?  what  with  me, 
What  with  my  love  ?     They  have  shown  me  fates  and  fears, 
Harsh  springs,  and  fountains  bitterer  than  the  sea, 
Grief  a  fix'd  star,  and  joy  a  vane  that  veers. 
These  many  years. 

With  her,  my  Love, — with  her  have  they  done  well  ? 
But  who  shall  answer  for  her  ?  who  shall  tell 
Sweet  things  or  sad,  such  things  as  no  man  hears  ? 
May  no  tears  fall,  if  no  tears  ever  fell. 
From  eyes  more  dear  to  me  than  starriest  spheres, 
These  many  years ! 


JAMES   THOMSON.  299 

But  if  tears  ever  touch'd,  for  any  grief, 
Those  eyelids  folded  like  a  white-rose  leaf, 
Deep  double  shells  where  through  the  eye-flower  peers, 
Let  them  weep  once  niore  only,  sweet  and  brief, 
Brief  tears  and  bright,  for  One  who  gave  her  tears 
These  many  years  ! 


JAMES  THOMSON. 

1S34 — 1882. 


THE  THREE  THAT  SHALL   BE  ONE. 

Love,  on  the  earth  alit 

(Come  to  be  Lord  of  it), 

Look'd  round  and  laugh'd  with  glee  : 

Noble  my  empery  ! 

Straight  ere  that  laugh  was  done 

Sprang  forth  the  royal  sun. 

Pouring  out  golden  shine 

Over  the  realm  divine. 

Came  then  a  lovely  May, 
Dazzling  the  new-born  day, 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair 
With  the  red  roses  there, 
Laughing  with  sunny  eyes 
Up  to  the  sunny  skies, 
Moving  so  light  and  free 
To  her  own  minstrelsy. 

Love  with  swift  rapture  cried — 
Dear  Life !  thou  art  my  bride  : 
Whereto  with  fearless  pride — 
Dear  Love  !  indeed  thy  bride  : 
All  the  earth's  fruit  and  flowers, 
All  the  world's  wealth,  are  ours; 


300  JAMES   THOMSON. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  gem 
Our  marriage  diadem. 

So  they  together  fare. 

Lovely  and  joyous  pair  ! 

So  hand  in  hand  they  roam 

All  through  their  Eden  home. 

Each  to  the  other's  sight 

An  ever-new  delight : 

Blue  heaven  and  blooming  earth 

Joy  in  their  darlings'  mirth. 

Who  comes  to  meet  them  now  ? 
She  with  the  pallid  brow. 
Wreathing  her  night-dark  hair 
With  the  red  poppies  there, 
Pouring  from  solemn  eyes 
GlooiTi  through  the  sunny  skies, 
Moving  so  silently 
In  her  deep  reverie. 

Life  paled  as  she  drew  near, 

Love  shook  with  doubt  and  fear. 

Ah,  then  (she  said)  in  truth 

(Eyes  full  of  yearning  ruth) 

Love !  thou  wouldst  have  this  Life, 

Fair  May,  to  be  thy  wife  ? 

Yet  at  an  awful  shrine 

Wert  thou  not  plighted  mine? 

Pale,  paler  poor  Life  grew; 
Love  murmur'd — It  is  true  ! 
How  could  I  thee  forsake  ? 
From  the  brief  dream  I  wake. 
Yet,  O  beloved  Death! 
See  how  She  suftereth  : 
Ere  we  from  earth  depart. 
Soothe  her,  thou  Tender-Heart! 


JAMES   THOMSON.  3OI 

Faint  on  the  ground  she  lay  : 
Love  kiss'd  her  swoon  away  ; 
Death  then  bent  over  her, 
Death  the  sweet  comforter! 
Whisper'd  with  tearful  smile — 
Wait  but  a  little  while  ! 
Then  I  will  come  for  thee  : 
We  are  one  family. 


WAITING. 

O,  what  are  you  waiting  for  here  ?  young  man  ! 
What  are  you  looking  for  over  the  bridge  ? — 
*'  A  little  straw  hat  with  the  streaming  blue  ribbons 
Is  soon  to  come  dancing  over  the  bridge. 

"  Her  heart  beats  the  measure  that  keeps  her  feet  dancing, 
Dancing  along  like  a  wave  o'  the  sea ; 

Her  heart  pours  the  sunshine  with  which  her  eyes  glancing 
Light  up  strange  faces,  in  looking  for  me. 

"  The  strange  faces  brighten  in  meeting  her  glances  ; 
The  strangers  all  bless  her,  pure,  lovely,  and  free ; 
She  fancies  she  walks,  but  her  walk  skips  and  dances, 
Her  heart  makes  such  music  in  coming  to  me. 

"  O,  thousands  and  thousands  of  happy  young  maidens 
Are  tripping  this  morning  their  sweethearts  to  see  : 
But  none  whose  heart  beats  to  a  sweeter  love-cadence 
Than  hers  who  will  brighten  the  sunshine  for  me." 

O  what  are  you  waiting  for  here  ?  young  man  ! 
What  are  you  looking  for  over  the  bridge  ? — 
"A  little  straw  hat  with  the  streaming  blue  ribbons." 
— And  here  it  comes  dancing  over  the  bridge. 


302  JOHN   HAY. 

JOHN    HAY. 
1839— 


A   WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 
Heard  this  shrill  wail  ring  out  from  Purgatory  : — 
"  Have  mercy,  mighty  angel !  hear  my  story. 

"I  loved, — and,  blind  with  passionate  love,  I  fell. 
Love  brought  me  down  to  death,  and  death  to  Hell 
For  God  is  just,  and  death  for  sin  is  well. 

"  I  do  not  rage  against  His  high  decree, 
Nor  for  myself  do  ask  that  grace  shall  be  ; 
But  for  my  Love  on  earth,  who  mourns  for  me. 

"  Great  Spirit !  let  me  see  my  Love  again, 
And  comfort  him  one  hour,  and  I  were  fain 
To  pay  a  thousand  years  of  fire  and  pain  !  " 

Then  said  the  pitying  angel — "  Nay  !  repent 
That  wild  vow  :  look  !  the  dial-finger's  bent 
Down  to  the  last  hour  of  thy  punishment." 

But  still  she  wail'd — "  I  pray  thee  let  me  go  ! 
I  can  not  rise  to  peace  and  leave  him  so  : 
O,  let  me  soothe  him  in  his  bitter  woe  !  " 

The  brazen  gates  ground  sullenly  ajar. 
And  upward,  joyous,  like  a  rising  star, 
She  rose  and  vanish'd  in  the  ether  far. 

But  soon  adown  the  dying  sunset  sailing, 
And  like  a  wounded  bird  her  pinions  trailing. 
She  flutter'd  back,  with  broken-hearted  wailing. 


HENRY   AUSTIN   DOBSON.  303 

She  sobb'd — "  I  found  him  by  the  summer  sea 

Reclined,  his  head  upon  a  maiden's  knee, — 

She  curl'd  his  hair  and  kiss'd  him.     Woe  is  me  !  " 

She  wept  :  "  Now  let  my  punishment  begin  ! 
I  have  been  fond  and  foolish.     Let  me  in 
To  expiate  my  sorrow  and  my  sin  !  " 

The  angel  answer' d—"  Nay,  sad  soul !  go  higher  1 
To  be  deceived  in  your  true  heart's  desire 
Was  bitterer  than  a  thousand  years  of  fire." 


HENRY   AUSTIN   DOBSON. 
1840 — 


BEFORE  SEDAN. 

Here  in  this  leafy  place 

Quiet  he  lies. 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turn'd  to  the  skies : 
'Tis  but  another  dead  : 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 

Carry  his  body  hence  ! 

Kings  must  have  slaves  : 
Kings  climb  to  eminence 

Over  men's  graves  : 
So  this  man's  eye  is  dim  ; — 
Throw  the  earth  over  him  ! 

What  was  the  white  you  touch'd, 

There,  at  his  side  ? 
Paper  his  hand  had  clutch'd 

Tight  ere  he  died  : 
Message  or  wish,  may  be  : 
Smooth  the  folds  out  and  see  ! 


304  ROBERT   WILLIAMS   BUCHANAN. 

Hardly  the  worst  of  us 

Here  could  have  smiled  ! 
Only  the  tremulous 

Words  of  a  child  : 
Prattle  that  has  for  stops 
Just  a  few  ruddy  drops. 

Look  ! — "  She  is  sad  to  miss, 

Morning  and  night, 
His  (her  dead  father's)  kiss  ; 

Tries  to  be  bright, 
Good  to  Mamma,  and  sweet :  " 
(That  is  all)—"  Marguerite." 

Ah  !  if  beside  the  dead 

Slumber'd  the  pain  : 
Ah  !  if  the  hearts  that  bled 

Slept  with  the  slain  : 
If  the  grief  died  : — but  no  ! 
Death  will  not  have  it  so. 


ROBERT   WILLIAMS   BUCHANAN. 

1S41— 


THE  MODERN   WARRIOR. 

O  Warrior  for  the  Right ! 
Though  thy  shirt  of  mail  be  white 

As  the  snows  upon  the  breast  of  The  Adored, 
Though  the  weapon  thou  mayst  claim 
Hath  been  temper'd  in  the  flame 

Of  the  fire  upon  the  Altar  of  the  Lord, 
Ere  the  coming  of  the  night 
Thy  mail  shall  be  less  bright, 

And  the  taint  of  sin  may  settle  on  the  sword. 


KOBERT   WILLIAMS   BUCHANAN.  305 

For  the  foemen  thou  must  meet 

Are  the  phantoms  in  the  street, 
And  thine  armour  shall  be  foul'd  in  many  a  place, 

And  the  shameful  mire  and  mud 

With  a  grosser  stain  than  blood 
Shall  be  scatter'd  'mid  the  fray  upon  thy  face  ; 

And  the  helpless  thou  dost  aid 

Shall  shrink  from  thee,  dismay'd. 
Till  thou  comest  to  the  knowledge  of  things  base. 

Ah,  mortal  !  with  a  brow 

Like  the  gleam  of  sunshine,  thou 
Mayst  wander  from  the  pathway  in  thy  turn  ; 

In  the  noontide  of  thy  strength 

Be  stricken  down  at  length, 
And  cry  to  God  for  aid,  and  live,  and  learn : 

And  when  with  many  a  stain 

Thou  arisest  up  again. 
The  lightning  of  thy  look  will  be  less  stern. 

Thou  shalt  see  with  humbler  eye 

The  adulteress  go  by. 
Nor  shudder  at  the  touch  of  her  attire  ; 

Thou  shalt  only  look  with  grief 

On  the  liar  and  the  thief ; 
Thou  shalt  meet  the  very  murtherer  in  the  mire  : 

And  to  which  wouldst  thou  accord, 

O  thou  Warrior  of  the  Lord  ! 
The  vengeance  of  the  Sword  and  of  the  Fire  ? 

Nay  !  batter'd  in  the  fray, 

Thou  shalt  quake  in  act  to  slay, 
And  remember  thy  transgression  and  be  meek ! 

And  the  thief  shall  grasp  thy  hand. 

And  the  liar  blushing  stand. 
And  the  harlot  if  she  list  shall  kiss  thy  cheek  ; 

And  the  murtherer,  unafraid, 

II.— 20 


306  ROBERT   WILLIAMS   BUCHANAN. 

Shall  meet  thee  in  the  shade 
And  pray  thee  for  the  doom  thou  wilt  not  wreak. 

Yet  shalt  thou  help  the  frail 

From  the  phantoms  that  assail, — 
Yea  !  the  strong  man  in  his  anger  shalt  thou  dare ; 

Thy  voice  shall  be  a  song 

Against  Wickedness  and  Wrong, 
But  the  wicked  and  the  wronger  thou  wilt  spare. 

And,  while  thou  lead'st  the  van, 

The  ungrateful  hand  of  man 
Shall  smite  thee  down  and  slay  thee  unaware. 

With  an  agonized  cry 

Thou  shalt  shiver  down,  and  die, 
With  stained  shirt  of  mail  and  broken  brand  ; 

And  the  voice  of  men  shall  call — 

"  He  has  fallen  like  us  all. 
Though  the  weapon  of  the  Lord  was  in  his  hand  :  " 

And  thine  epitaph  shall  be — 

"  He  was  wretched  even  as  we  ;  " 
And  thy  tomb  may  be  unhonour'd  in  the  land. 

But  the  basest  of  the  base 

Shall  bless  thy  pale  dead  face  ; 
And  the  thief  shall  steal  a  bloody  lock  of  hair  : 

And  over  thee  asleep 

The  adulteress  shall  weep 
Such  tears  as  she  can  never  shed  elsewhere, 

Shall  bless  the  broken  brand 

In  thy  chill  and  nerveless  hand. 
Shall  kiss  thy  stained  vesture,  with  a  prayer. 

Then,  while  in  that  chill  place 
Stand  the  basest  of  the  base 
Gather'd  round  thee  in  the  silence  of  the  dark, 
A  white  Face  shall  look  down 
On  the  silence  of  the  town 


ROBERT   BRIDGES.  307 

And  see  thee  lying  dead,  with  those  to  mark; 

And  a  Voice  shall  fill  the  air — 

"  Bear  my  Warrior  lying  there 
To  his  sleep  upon  my  Breast!  "  and  they  shall  hark. 

Lo  !  then  those  fallen  things 
Shall  perceive  a  rush  of  wings 

Growing  nearer  down  the  azure  gulf  untrod  ; 
And  around  them  in  the  night 
There  shall  grow  a  wondrous  light, 

While  they  hide  affrighted  faces  on  the  sod  : 
But  ere  again  'tis  dark 
They  shall  raise  their  eyes,  and  mark 

White  arms  that  waft  the  Warrior  up  to  God.     . 


ROBERT    BRIDGES. 
1844— 


THE  SEA- POPPY. 

A  Poppy  grows  upon  the  shore 
Bursts  her  twin  cup  in  summer  late  : 
Her  leaves  are  glaucous  green  and  hoar, 
Her  petals  yellow,  delicate. 

Oft  to  her  cousins  turns  her  thought, 
In  wonder  if  they  care  that  she 
Is  fed  with  spray  for  dew,  and  caught 
By  every  gale  that  sweeps  the  sea. 

She  has  no  lovers  like  the  Red 
That  dances  with  the  noble  Corn  : 
Her  blossoms  on  the  waves  are  shed, 
Where  she  sits  shivering  and  forlorn. 


>08  EDMUND   WILLIAM   GOSSE. 

EDMUND    WILLIAM    GOSSE. 

1849— 


THE  SUPPLIANT. 
Beneath  the  poplars  o'er  the  sacred  pool 
The  halcyons  dart  like  rays  of  azure  light  : 
Fair  presage !     By  the  columns  white  and  cool 
I'll  watch  to-night. 

Perchance  the  Goddess,  at  the  twilight's  breath, 
"Will  come  with  silver  feet  and  braidless  hair 
And,  all  too  startled  to  decree  my  death, 
Will  hearken  to  my  prayer. 

So  when  at  moon-rise  by  the  farm  I  go. 
The  lovely  girl  who  near  the  fig-tree  stands 
May  turn  no  more  on  scornful  feet  and  slow, 
But  hold  out  both  her  hands. 

THEOPHILE    MARZIALS. 
1850- 


RONDEL. 
To-day  what  is  there  in  the  air 
That  makes  December  seem  sweet  May  ? 
There  are  no  swallows  anywhere. 
Nor  crocuses  to  crown  your  hair 
And  hail  you  down  my  garden  way. 
Last  night  the  full  moon's  frozen  stare 
Struck  me,  perhaps  ;  or  did  you  say 
Really— you'd  come,  sweet  Friend  and  fair! 

To-day  ? 
To-day  is  here  :  come  !  crown  to-day 
With  Spring's  delight  or  Spring's  despair  ! 
Love  can  not  bide  old  Time's  delay  :  — 
Down  my  glad  gardens  light  winds  play, 
And  my  whole  soul  shall  bloom  and  bear 

To-day. 


ANDREW   LANG.  309 

PAKENHAM   THOMAS   BEATTY. 

1855- 


IN  MY  DREAMS. 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  say 
Sweet  words  I  never  hear  by  day, 
And  murmur  lovingly  and  low, 
And  take  my  hand  and  kiss  my  brow ! 

And  I  will  whisper  all  night  through 
What  I  can  only  say  to  you  : 
My  hopes  1  had,  my  life  I  plann'd, 
That  only  you  can  understand. 

Rest  with  me,  Love!  until  the  day; 
Then  kiss  me  once,  and  pass  away  ! 
And  let  me  waken.  Dear  !  to  weep, 
You  can  but  kiss  me  in  my  sleep. 

ANDREW   LANG. 

1844— 


IN  ITHACA. 

'Tis  thought  Odysseus,  when  the  strife  was  o'er 

With  all  the  waves  and  wars,  a  weary  while. 

Grew  restless  in  his  disenchanted  isle. 

And  still  would  watch  the  sunset,  from  the  shore, 

Go  down  the  waves  of  gold  ;  and  evermore 

His  sad  heart  follovv'd  after,  mile  on  mile, 

Back  to  the  Goddess  of  the  magic  wile — 

Calypso,  and  the  love  that  was  of  yore. 

Thou  too,  thy  haven  gain'd,  must  turn  thee  yet 

To  look  across  the  sad  and  stormy  space, 

Years  of  a  youth  as  bitter  as  the  sea. 

Ah !  with  a  heavy  heart  and  eyelids  wet : 

Because  within  a  fair  forsaken  place 

The  life  that  might  have  been  is  lost  to  thee. 


3IO  WILLIAM   DAVIES. 

WILLIAM   DAVIES. 

1829 — 


DOING  AND  BEING. 

Think  not  alone  to  do  right  and  fulfil 

Life's  due  perfection  by  the  simple  worth 

Of  lawful  actions  call'd  by  justice  forth, 

And  thus  condone  a  world  confused  with  ill ! 

But  fix  the  high  condition  of  thy  will 

To  be  right,  that  its  good's  spontaneous  birth 

May  spread  like  flowers  springing  from  the  earth 

On  which  the  natural  dews  of  heaven  distil ! 

For  these  require  no  honours,  take  no  care 

For  gratitude  from  men, — but  more  are  bless'd 

In  the  sweet  ignorance  that  they  are  fair  ; 

And  through  their  proper  functions  live  and  rest, 

Breathing  their  fragrance  on  the  joyous  air, 

Content  with  praise  of  bettering  what  is  best. 


NOTES. 


Wordsworth.  Born  at  Cockermouth,  Cumberland.  Wordsworth  be- 
longs to  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  as  well  as  to  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth. His  Evctiing  Walk  was  written  in  1793  ;  his  Lyrical  Ballads  w^xq 
published  in  1798.  Peter  Bell  also  was  written  in  1798,  though  not  pub- 
lished till  1815.  Nature's  Darling  bears  date  of  1799  ;  the  Odr  to 
Duty,  1805  ;  the  Invocation  to  the  Power  of  Sound  and  the 
Triad,  1828 ;  the  Sonnet — "  Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne," 
1836.  Of  his  two  longest  poems,  the  Excursion  came  out  in  1814;  the 
Prelude,  begun  in  his  early  days,  was  not  published  till  after  his  death. 

In  later  editions  of  the  Ode  to  Duty  the  last  two  lines  of  the  second 
Stanza  read  as  follows  : 

O,  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around  them  cast ! 

Coleridge,  "logician,  metaphysician,  and  bard,  "as  Lamb  calls  him, 
born  at  Ottery  St.  Mary,  Devonshire,  belongs  almost  wholly  to  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  little  of  his  poetry  being  written  later,  except  in  1814-16 
the  tragedy  of  Z,apolya.  Christabcl,  first  printed  in  1816,  had  been  mainly 
written  in  1797.  So  also  Remorse,  a  tragedy,  acted  in  1813.  The  Rime 
of  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  printed  with  Wordsworth's  Lyrical  Ballads, 
1798  ;  and  in  1798-1800  he  translated  from  Schiller's  MSS.,  for  simultane- 
ous publication  in  Germany  and  England,  the  Piccolomini  and  Death  of 
Wallensteifi,  which  Carlyle  praised  as  *'  the  best  translation  from  Ger- 
man then  produced,  except  Sotheby's  Oberon."  Genevieve  may  be 
taken  as  of  his  earliest,  the  poems  at  pp.  24,  25,  as  of  his  latest  writing. 

Genevieve  is  only  part  of  the  poem  as  originally  written  for  introduc- 
tion to  a  longer  poem  never  completed.  Coleridge  himself  struck  out 
some  stanzas  at  the  beginning  and  end,  and  published  it  as  a  complete 


312  NOTES. 

poem,  on  Love,  in  its  present  form.  One  stanza,  that  beginning  "  And 
how  he  cross'd — "  (p.  21),  seems  to  have  been  inadvertently  dropped,  and 
is  omitted  from  the  usual  copies. 

SouTHEY,  born  at  Bristol,  had  also  written  before  1800 :  Joan  of  Arc, 
Wat  Tyler,  and  many  minor  poems.  Thalaba  the  Destroyer  is  dated 
1800  ;  Madoc,  1805.  The  Curse  of  Kehama  was  begun  in  1801  and  fin- 
ished in  1809 ;  and  Roderick,  the  last  of  the  Goths,  begun  in  1809  and 
finished  in  1814.  These  are  his  principal  works,  quasi  epics  (except  Wat 
Tyler) :  all  of  weight  and  considerable  worth.  The  Holly  Tree  was 
written  in  1798  ;  the  Scholar  in  1818. 

Tannahill.  a  Scottish  minor  poet.  The  "  Lake  poets"  have  been 
kept  together  partly  on  account  of  their  early  work  before  the  present 
century ;  so  Tannahill  may  follow,  his  poems  being  chiefly  of  the  same 
date.  He  was  dead  before  Hogg,  born  two  years  earlier,  had  done  any- 
thing of  mark. 

Gart  is  forced,  compelled  ;  tine — lose  ;  dowic — doleful ;  a'  my  lane — all 
alone;  daffin — joking;  short  syne — a  short  time  ago;  aboon — above; 
wair'd — spent ;  coft — bought;  fa — fall;  govjden — golden;  gloaming — twi- 
light. 

Scott  (Sir  Walter).  Born  at  Edinburgh.  The  Poet  preceded  the 
Novelist.  The  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border  (with  some  ballads  by 
himself)  was  published  in  1802;  the  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,  1805  ;  Mar- 
mion,  1808  ;  Lady  of  the  Lake,  1810  ;  Vision  of  Don  Roderick^  1811 ; 
Rokeby  and  the  Bridal  of  Triermain,  1813  ;  Lord  of  the  Isles,  1814.  In 
1814  appeared  Waverley,  the  first  of  the  novels. 

The  Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  was  written  for  Campbell's  Albyn  An- 
thology in  1816 ;  Jock  o'  Hazeldean  also,  except  the  first  stanza,  which 
"is  ancient."  Light  Love  will  be  found  in  Rokeby;  the  Death- 
Ch.'^NT  in  Guy  Manner ing;  and  Proud  Maisie  in  the  Heart  of  Mid- 
Lothian. 

Loot  is  let ;  birn — lightning. 

Montgomery.  Another  Scottish-bom  poet.  His  lengthier  poems  are 
the  Wanderer  in  Sruitzcrland,  1806  ;  the  World  before  the  Flood,  1812  ; 
Greenland,  1819 ;  the  Pelican  hland,  1828.  He  wrote  also  Songs  and 
Hymns.  As  Editor  of  the  Sheffield  Iris  he  was  in  1795  imprisoned  for 
"  seditious  "  writing. 


NOTES.  313 

Hogg.  The  "  Ettrick  Shepherd."  Born  at  Ettrick  in  Selkirkshire, 
and  in  early  life  a  shepherd  and  farmer  laborer.  Though  so  closely  fol- 
lowing Scott  in  order  of  birth,  his  poems  are  of  later  date.  The  first  in 
time  and  importance  is  his  Queen' s  Wake^  1813,  not  written  till  he  was 
forty  years  of  age.  He  wrote  afterward  the  Pilg-rims  of  the  Sun  ;  Queen 
Hynde ;  and  numerous  short  pieces  and  songs  ;  took  part  with  Professor 
Wilson  in  the  Noctes  AihbrosiancB  of  Blackwood's  Magazine  ;  and  in  1819 
and  1821  edited  a  collection  of  "  Jacobite  Relics." 

The  laverock  is  the  lark. 

I.AMB.  Born  in  London.  Besides  the  Essays  of  Elia  and  other  prose 
works,  he  wrote  a  few  poems:  some  printed  with  those  of  Coleridge  in 
1797;  John  Woodvil,  a  tragedy,  1802;  the  Wife's  Trial,  1828;  Album 
Verses,  1830. 

Landor.  Born  at  Ipsley  House,  Warwickshire.  The  magnificence 
of  Landor's  prose  works  has  overshadowed  the  excellence  of  his  poetry, 
ranging  over  nearly  three-quarters  of  a  century.  Besides  his  most  poetic 
prose, — the  Imaginary  Conversaiiotis,  the  Citation  and  Examination  of 
Shakespeare  (which  Lamb  said  "only  two  men  could  have  written"), 
Pericles  and  Aspasia^  and  the  Pentameron, — he  wrote  an  epic  poem  in 
seven  books,  Gebir,  in  1797;  a  tragedy,  Count  yulian,  in  1811 ;  in  later 
time  Hellenics,  Heroic  Idylls^  Dramatic  Scenes;  and  short  poems  and 
epigrams  down  to  the  very  close  of  life,  in  his  ninetieth  year. 

Age)i  is  a  spelling  insisted  upon  by  him. 

Campbell.  Born  at  Glasgow,  but,  like  Montgomery,  only  for  place 
of  birth  to  be  called  a  Scottish  poet.  The  Pleasures  of  Hope  appeared  in 
1798 ;  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  in  i8og  ;  Theodoric  in  1824.  The  MARI- 
NERS OF  England  was  written  in  1800 ;  the  Battle  of  the  Baltic 
commemorates  the  seizure  in  Copenhagen  harbor,  by  Nelson,  in  1807, 
of  the  Danish  fleet,  to  prevent  its  being  of  service  to  Napoleon. 

Moore.  Born  in  Dublin.  Odes  of  Anacreo?t,  1800  ;  Irish  Melodies 
(and  Songs  to  other  national  airs),  from  1807  to  1834  ;  Lalla  Rookh, 
18 17  ;  Loves  of  the  Angels,  1823. 

Smith  (Horace  or  Horatio).  Amarynthus,  the  Aympholept,  a  pastoral 
drama,  1821  ;  Gaieties  a?id  Gravities,  1825.  He  also  had  part  with  his 
brother  James  in  Rejected  Addresses,  parodies  of  Wordsworth,  Byron, 
and  other  contemporary  poets. 


314 


NOTES. 


Elliott.  Born  near  Rotherham  in  Yorkshire.  Working  at  his 
father's  foundry  in  early  days,  and  afterward  in  business  as  an  iron- 
monger in  Sheffield.  Chiefly  known  as  the  "Corn-law  Rhymer,"  his 
rhymes  having  materially  aided  the  popular  movement  in  England  for 
repeal  of  the  bread-tax.  His  longer  poems  are  the  Vernal  Walk,  writ- 
ten in  his  seventeenth  year,  1798  ;  and  the  Village  Patriarch,  1829. 

Leigh  Hunt.  Poet  and  Essayist.  Juvenilia  appeared  in  1801  ;  his 
most  important  poem,  the  Story  of  Rimini,  m  1816.  Besides  many 
shorter  poems,  and  translations,  should  be  noted  a  very  noble  play,  the 
Legend  of  Florence,  written  and  acted  in  1840.  The  SoNG  OF  Peace  is 
from  the  Descent  of  Liberty,  a  masque,  written  in  1814  while  in  prison 
(imprisoned  for  two  years)  for  ridiculing  the  Prince  Regent,  afterward 
George  the  Fourth.  The  Grasshopper  atzd  Cricket  (p.  63)  was  composed 
in  competition  with  and  at  the  same  time  as  that  by  Keats,  p.  loi. 

Cunningham.  In  1810  one  Cromek  published  Remains  of  Nithsdale 
and  Galloway  Song,  supposed  to  have  been  collected,  but  certainly  much 
of  it  written,  by  Allan  Cunningham,  a  Dumfries  stone-mason.  The  song 
at  page  65  Cromek  gives  as  sent  to  him  by  a  lady  ;  but  Peter  Cunning- 
ham claims  it  for  his  father,  and  the  father  printed  it,  with  some  varia- 
tions, in  his  collected  works.  It  is  hard  to  know  certainly  what  is  really 
and  entirely  his,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  (as  Burns  was)  of  adapting  and 
completing  ancient  fragments  :  this  song  therefore  may  be  taken  as  his, 
but  doubtfully.     He  is  chiefly  known  for  his  Lives  of  British  Painters. 

Darley.  The  Errors  of  Ecstasie,  and  other  poems,  1822 ;  Sylvia,  or 
the  .^ray-Queen,  a  lyrical  drama,  1827  ;  Ethelstan  and  Becket,  dramatic 
chronicles,  1840  and  1841. 

Peacock.  Novelist,  satirist,  and  poet.  His  poetry  consists  of  Songs 
in  his  novels  {Headlong  Hall,  Maid  Marian,  Gryll  Grange,  etc.) ;  Pal- 
myra, 1806;  the  Genius  of  the  Thames,  1810;  Rhododaphne,  along,  learned, 
fanciful  poem,  1818  (the  year  of  Endymion) ;  the  Deceived,  a  comedy, 
1831  ;  Paper-money  Lyrics,  1837  ;  and  ^lia  I.celia  Crispis,  1862. 

Procter.  Play-wright  as  well  as  writer  of  Songs.  Better  known  by 
his  pseudonym,  "  Barry  Cornwall."  Born  in  London.  He  published 
Dramatic  Scenes  in  1819  ;  Marcian  Colofina  and  Mirandola,  plays,  in  1820 
and  1821  ;  the  Flood  of  Thcssaly,  1823  ;  and  Etiglish  Songs,  1832,  with 
additions  in  1851. 


NOTES.  315 

Dana.  Born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  The  Idle  Man,  1821  ; 
The  Bucca?iter  and  Other  Poems,  1827  ;  Poems  and  Prose  Writings ,  1850. 

Byron.  Born  in  London.  Hours  of  Idleness,  1807 ;  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers,  1809  ;  the  first  two  cantos  of  Childc  Harold,  1812  ; 
the  third  and  fourth,  1816-17  ;  metrical  romances, — the  Brtde  of  Abydos, 
Corsair,  etc.,  Beppo,  and  Manfred,  between  1813  and  1818  ;  Marino  Fali- 
ero,  1820  ;  Heaven  and  Earth,  Sardanapalus,  the  Two  Foscari,  and  Cain, 
in  1821.     Don  yuan,  his  greatest  work,  was  begun  in  1818. 

The  Isles  of  Greece  from  Don  Juan;  And  Thou  art  Dead,  one 
of  several  poems  "to  Thyrza,"  written  in  1812  ;  the  Song  of  Saul,  the 
Patriot,  and  She  Walks  in  Beauty,  from  Hebrew  Melodies.  Byron's 
Last  Verse  was  written  at  Missolonghi  on  the  22d  of  January,  1824, 
within  three  months  of  his  death. 

Shelley.  Born  at  Field  Place,  Sussex.  Queen  Mab,  1813 ;  Alastor, 
1816  ;  Lao7t  and  Cythna  (the  Revolt  of  Islatn).,  1817;  Rosalind  and  Helen, 
1817-18  ;  the  Cenci,  the  Masque  of  Anarchy,  and  Peter  Bell  the  Third, 
1819 ;  Prometheus  Unbound,  (Edipus  Tyrannus  (^Swell-foot  the  Tyratit), 
and  the  Witch  of  Atlas,  1820;  Epipsychtdion  and  Adonais,  1821  ;  Charles 
the  First  (a  fragment),  1821-22;  Hellas,  1822. 

The  different  editions  of  Shelley  (Forman's  latest  and  best)  have  vari- 
ous readings  of  his  poems,  but  not  often  so  important  as  to  justify  de- 
parture from  that  issued  by  Mrs.  Shelley.  Allingham  suggests  pine,  for 
fail  (an  evident  misprint),  in  the  second  stanza  of  Lines  to  an  Indian 
Air  ;  and  surely  strain  should  be  taken  instead  of  the  usually  printed 
stain  in  the  Wail  at  page  92.  In  the  song  To-Night  all  the  authorities 
have  Day  both  male  and  female,  probably  following  Shelley's  careless 
manuscript.  Rossetti  suggests  her  for  his  in  the  third  stanza ;  but  the 
alteration  in  the  second  stanza,  in  our  text,  seems  preferable.  Day  being 
always  male  and  Night  female.  In  most,  if  not  all,  editions  wrong  punc- 
tuation destroys  the  poetic  beauty  and  the  sense  of  the  first  four  lines  of 
A  Bridal  Song,  p.  90. 

Keats.  Born  in  London.  His  first  verse  appeared  in  1817.  In  i8i3 
he  published  Endymion  (in  which  are  the  Roundelay  and  Hymn  to 
Pan,  pp.  92,  94);  and  in  the  two  following  years  Lamia,  Isabella,  the  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes,  his  shorter  poems,  and  the  glorious  {r&gmeni— Hyperion. 

Wolfe.  Born  in  Dublin.  He  owes  his  immortahty  to  this  one  poem  : 
besides  which  he  wrote  only  a  few  songs  of  little  importance. 


3l6  NOTES. 

Sir  John  Moore,  in  command  of  the  British  army  in  Spain,  in  the  war 
against  Napoleon,  was  slain  at  the  battle  of  Corunna,  in  1809,  when  cov- 
ering the  embarkation  of  his  troops,  in  their  retreat  before  Ney  and 
Soult.  In  the  last  stanza  but  one  sullenly  is  generally  misprinted  for  siid- 
denly.  Wolfe's  manuscript  has  suddaily  ;  and  in  the  account  in  the  Edin- 
burgh Annual  Register  (which  suggested  the  poem)  we  find  it  stated  that 
the  burial  "  was  hastened,  for  about  eight  in  the  morning  some  firing  was 
heard," — a  renewed  attack  feared. 

Hemans.  Felicia  Dorothea  Browne,  afterward  Mrs.  Hemans,  was 
born  at  Liverpool.  Between  1803  and  1835  she  wrote  numerous  poems, 
graceful  and  musical,  if  not  of  high  imagination  or  intellectuality  :  his- 
toric poems  on  Welsh,  Greek,  Spanish  themes;  two  dramas,  the  Siege  of 
Valencia  and  the  Vespers  of  Palermo  :  Scenes  and  Hymtis  of  Life  ;  Songs 
of  the  Affections :  translations  from  Horace  ;  etc.,  etc. 

Bryant.  Born  at  Cummington,  Massachusetts.  The  Embargo,  1809  ; 
The  Ages,  1821  ;  Poems,  1832  ;  The  Fountain  and  Other  Poems,  1842  ;  The 
White-Footed  Deer  and  Other  Poems,  1844  ;  Poems,  1846  ;  Letters  of  a 
Traveller,  1850;  Thirty  Poems,  1863  ;  Letters  from  the  East,  1869  ;  Trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad,  1870;    Translation  of  the  Odyssey,  1871-72. 

Carlyle.  Some  few  slight  verses  were  written  by  the  great  historian 
and  essayist. 

Reynolds,  Hood's  brother-in-law.  The  author  of  Peter  Bell  the  Sec- 
ond, making  fun  of  Wordsworth's  Lyrical  Ballads,  in  the  same  year  as 
and  seemingly  suggestive  of  Shelley's  Peter  Bell  the  Third,  a  profounder 
and  more  elaborate  criticism,  serious  though  jocose.  He  wrote  also  the 
Garden  of  Florence,  with  other  poems,  "  by  John  Hamilton,"  1821. 

Coleridge  (Hartley),  eldest  son  of  the  Poet,  wrote  a  number  of  minor 
poems,  published  in  1833. 

Motherwell.  Born  at  Glasgow.  Poems,  lyrical  and  narrative, 
1832-3.     In  1827  he  edited  Ancient  and  Modern  Minstrelsy  (a  collection). 

Beltane— lAzy-il^y  ;  Yule — Christmas  ;  blinks — glances  ;  ae  laigh  bink — 
one  low  seat ;  leir  ilk  itker  Icar — teach  each  other  ;  /w/— palm  ;  brent — 
burn'd  ;  weans — children  ;  deck' d—\\oo\C d,,  clung  ;  skailt — dispersed  ; 
speel — climb  ;  A/««2>(/— honey'd  ;  simmer — summer  ;  ^mz/w'— deafening  ; 
croon — murmur  ;  7ohusslit — whistled  ;  knowe — knoll ;  abune  or  aboon — 
above  ;  grat—wi^p^  ;  ^'•/«— if ;  grit—{\x\\. 


NOTES,  317 

Hood.  Born  in  London.  Great  not  only  as  a  humorist,  but  also  as  a 
serious  poet,  though  not  so  recognized  until  the  appearance  of  his  Song 
of  the  Shirt  in  Punch,  in  1843,  barely  two  years  before  his  death.  The 
Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies  (with  Hero  and  Leander,  Lycus  the  Cen- 
taur, and  other  poems)  was  printed  in  1827.  Tylney  Hall^  a  novel  (in 
which  our  poem  of  Constancy),  came  out  in  1B34  ;  Miss  Kilmansci,'-,!^ 
and  her  Golden  Leg,  a  serio-comic  poem,  in  1840  ;  the  Haunted  House  and 
the  Bridge  of  Sighs  in  1844. 

Wells.  The  friend  of  Keats.  Author  of  Joseph  and  his  Brethren,  a 
Scriptural  drama,  published  with  the  pseudonym  of  "  Howard,"  in  1824, 
republished  in  1876.  He  wrote  also  poetical-prose  Stories  after  Nature, 
in  one  of  which  is  the  SoNG  at  page  124. 

Taylor  (Sir  Henry).  Dramatist.  His  principal  work  \s  Philip  Van 
Artevelde,  an  historical  play,  published  in  1834.  His  other  plays  are 
Isaac  Comnetzus,  Edwin  the  Fair,  A  Sicilian  Summer  (called  in  the  first 
edition  the  Virgin  Widow),  and  St.  Clemettt' s  Eve. 

Barnes.  The  Rev.  William  Barnes,  a  Dorsetshire  clergyman,  is  au- 
thor of  some  three  or  four  hundred,  or  more,  poems  of  rural  life,  in  the 
Dorset  dialect,  and  others  in  common  English. 

Newman.  John  Henry,  Cardinal  Newman.  Verses  on  several  oc- 
casions^ 1868.     The  Elements,  p.  127,  written  in  1833  ;  A  Voice  from 

AFAR,  1829. 

Martineau.  This  single  hymn  and  a  song  in  one  of  her  tales  may 
entitle  Harriet  Martineau  to  a  corner  in  our  anthologies. 

Beddoes.  The  son  of  Dr.  Beddoes  (physician)  and  nephew  of  Maria 
Edgeworth.  He  published  the  Improvisatore  in  1821  and  the  Bride's 
Tragedy  in  1822.  Death's  jfcst  Book,  or  the  Fool's  Tragedy,  the  Seco?id 
Brother  and  Torrismond  (unfinished  dramas),  dramatic  fragments  and 
poems,  were  printed  after  his  death. 

HoRNE.  Poet,  dramatist,  and  prose  writer.  He  has  published, — in 
1835,  the  Death  of  Marlowe,  a  tragedy  in  one  act  ;  in  1837,  Cosmo  de'  AIc- 
dici^  a.  tragedy  ;  in  1840,  Gregory  the  Seventh,  a  tragedy,  and  the  Death- 
Fetch  ;  in  1843,  Orion,  an  epic  poem  ;  in  1846,  Ballad  Romances  ;  in  1864, 
Prometheus  the  Fire-Bringer  (written  in  Australia);  in  1880,  Laura  Di- 


3l8  NOTES. 

taho,  a  tragedy;  and  in  1881,  yoh/i  the  Baptist,  Ralunan  (Job's  Wife), 
and  ytidas  Iscariot — a  miracle  play.  He  has  also  very  extensivel}'  con- 
tributed to  the  magazines  and  other  periodical  publications. 

Emerson.  Born  at  Boston,  Massachusetts.  Nature,  1836  ;  Essays 
arrd  Lectures,  First  Series,  1840  ;  Essays  and  Lectures,  Second  Series, 
1844  ;  Poems,  1846  ;  Miscellajiics,  1849  ;  Representative  Men,  1850  ;  Eng- 
lish Traits,  1856  ;  The  Conduct  of  Life,  i860  ;  May  Day  and  Other  Pocms^ 
1867;  Solitude  and  Society ,  1870;  Prose  Works,  1870. 

Griffin.  One  of  the  "Young  Ireland"  party  of  1S42-48,  and  con- 
tributor to  the  Irish  Nation  of  those  years.  Born  at  Limerick.  He  wrote 
in  his  twentieth  year  his  drama  of  Gisippus,  put  on  the  stage  by  Ma- 
cready  in  1842.  His  poetical  works  were  published  in  1851.  He  is  more 
generally  known  as  a  novelist  of  merit. 

Mangan.  Another  Irish  poet  of  the  Young  Ireland  time.  Born  in 
Dublin.  Of  genius  similar  to  that  of  Poe.  His  poems  are  free  transla- 
tions (rather  new  poetic  renderings  from  prose  translations)  of  early 
Irish  ;  translations  from  the  German ;  and  original  contributions  to  the 
Nation  and  the  United  Irishman.  His  collected  works,  original  and 
translated,  were  published  in  New  York  in  1859. 

Blanchard.  a  bright  essayist  and  writer  of  society  verses.  Lyric 
Offerings,  1828. 

Hawker,  Vicar  of  Morwenstow  in  Cornwall,  published  Tendrils  of 
Reuben  (juvenile  poems)  in  1821  ;  Records  of  the  Western  Shore  in  1832  ; 
the  Quest  of  the  San.  Graal  in  1864. 

/sha  Cherioth  is  the  Cherioth  woman,  or  maiden. 

Adams.  Mrs.  Adams,  the  daughter  of  Benjamin  Flower,  Editor  of  the 
Cambridge  Intelligencer  (one  of  the  first  liberal  newspapers  in  England), 
and  wife  of  William  Bridges  Adams,  notable  as  a  civil  engineer  and  po- 
litical writer.  She  wrote  Vivia  Perpctua,  a  drama,  1841  ;  anti-corn-law 
rhymes,  contemporaneously  with  Elliott ;  and  Hymns  (set  to  music  by 
her  sister,  Eliza  P'lower)  for  the  Unitarian  religious  services  conducted 
by  W.  J.  Fox  at  South  Place,  Finsbury,  London. 

Hamilton.  Mathematician,  and  astronomer-royal  for  Ireland.  Born 
in  Dublin. 


NOTES.  319 

Wade.  Author  of  the  yeio  of  Arragon,  a  tragedy  brought  out  by 
Charles  Kemble  in  1830 ;  Woman's  Love,  a  comedy,  1828 ;  Mundi  et 
Cordis  Carniina  (Songs  of  the  Universe  and  the  Heart),  1835  ;  the  Con- 
tention of  Death  and  Love,  Helena,  and  the  Shadow-Seeker ,  1837 ;  Pro- 
thanasia,  1839. 

Sterling.     Born  in  the  Isle  of  Bute,     Minor  Poems,  iZ^g;   The  Elec- 
tion, 1841  ;  Strafford,  a  drama,  1843. 
Daedalus  is  the  type  of  inventive  genius. 

SIMMS.  Born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  A  voluminous  writer  of 
poems,  plays,  stories,  romances,  histories,  biographies,  and  criticisms, 
his  works  numbering  upward  of  sixty  different  titles.  His  poetical 
writings  are  :  Lyrical  and  Other  Poem-s,  1827 ;  Early  Lays,  1827  ;  The 
Vision  of  Cortes  and  other  Poems,  1829  ;  The  Tri-Color,  or  Three  Days 
of  Bloody  1830 ;  Atalantis,  a  Drama  of  the  Sea,  1832  ;  Southern  Passages 
and  Pictures,  1839  ;  Donna  Florida,  a  Tale,  1843  ;  Grouped  Thoughts  and 
Scattered  Fancies,  1845  ;  Areytos  ;  or.  Songs  of  the  South,  1846;  Songs  of 
the  Palmetto,  1848  ;  The  Eye  and  the  Wing,  1848  ;  The  City  of  the  Silent, 
1850  ;  Poe7ns,  1854. 

Willis.  Born  at  Portland,  Maine.  One  of  the  most  accomplished 
and  versatile  of  American  authors,  magazinists,  and  journalists.  His 
principal  poetical  writings  are  :  Sketches,  1827  ;  Fugitive  Poetry,  1829 ; 
Mclatiie  and  Other  Poems,  1835  ;  Tortesa  the  Usurer,  1839  ;  Biatica  Vis- 
conti,  1839  ;    The  Lady  fane  and  Other  Poems,  1844. 

Longfellow.  Born  at  Portland,  Maine.  The  most  popular  writer 
of  English  verse  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Coplas  de  Manrique,  a  trans- 
lation from  the  Spanish,  1833 ;  Outre-Mer,  a  Pilgrimage  beyond  the  Sea, 
1835  ;  Hyperion,  a  Rotnance,  1839;  Voices  of  the  Night,  1839;  Ballads  and 
Other  Poems,  1841  ;  Poems  on  Slavery,  1842  ;  The  Spanish  Student,  1843  ; 
The  Waif,  a  Collection  of  Poems,  1845  ;  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe, 
1845  ;  The  Belfry  of  Bruges  and  Other  Poems,  1846  ;  77/.?  Estray,  a  Col- 
lection of  Poems,  1847  ;  Evangeline,  a  Tale  of  Acadie,  1847  ;  Kavanagh,  a 
Tale,  1849  ;  The  Seaside  and  the  Fireside,  1850  ;  The  Golden  Legend,  1851  ; 
The  Sojig  of  Hiawatha,  1855 ;  The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish,  1858  ; 
Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,  1863  ;  Flower -de- Luce,  1867  ;  The  New  England 
Tragedies,  1868  ;  Translation  of  Dante's  Divine  Comedy,  1867-70  ;  The 
Divine  Tragedy,  1872  ;  Christus,  a  Mystery,  1872  ;  Three  Books  of  Song, 
1872  ;  Aftermath,  1874  ;  The  Masque  of  Pandora,  1875  ;  Keramos  and 
Other  Poems,  1878  ;  Ultima  Thule,  iSSo  ;  Michael  Angclo,  a  Tragedy,  1883. 


320  NOTES. 

Whittier.  Born  at  Haverhill,  Massachusetts.  A  grave  and  earnest 
thinker,  whose  inspiration  is  largely  drawn  from  moral  and  political  ques- 
tions, and  with  whom  poetry  is  a  passion,  not  an  art.  The  following 
are  his  principal  works  :  Legends  of  New  England,  1831  ;  Moll  Pitcher, 
1831  ;  Mogg  Megone,  1836  ;  Lays  of  My  Home,  aiid  Other  Poems,  1843  ; 
The  Bridal  of  Pennacook,  1848  ;  Leaves  from  Margaret  Smith's  journal, 
1849  ;  The  Voices  of  Freedom,  1849  ;  Songs  of  Labor  and  Other  Poetns, 
1850;  Old  Portraits  and  Modern  Sketches,  1850;  The  Chapel  of  the  Her- 
mits, 1853  ;  The  Panorama  and  Other  Poems,  1856  ;  Home  Ballads  and 
Other  Poems,  i860  ;  In  War  Time  and  Other  Poe7ns,  1863  ;  Snow-Bound, 
a  Winter  Idyl,  1866  ;  The  Tent  on  the  Beach  and  Other  Poems,  1867  ; 
Among  the  Hills  and  Other  Poems^  1868  ;  Miriam  a?id  Other  Poems,  1870  ; 
The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim  and  Other  Poems,  1872  ;  The  Vision  of  Echard 
and  Other  Poems,  1878  ;  The  King's  Missive  and  Other  Poems,  1881  ;  The 
Bay  of  Seven  Islands  and  Other  Poems,  1883. 


Trench.  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  yustin  Martyr  and  other  poems, 
1835  ;  Honor  Ncale,  1838  ;  Genoveva,  1842  ;  Sacred  Poems,  1846  ;  Alma 
and  other  poems,  1855. 

POE.  Born  in  Boston,  Massachusetts,  the  son  of  strolling  players,  he 
was  lavishly,  if  not  wisely,  indulged  by  his  adoptive  father.  A  reckless 
student  and  a  cashiered  cadet,  he  wrote  melodious  verses  and  ghastly 
stories  :  edited  the  Southerti  Literary  Messenger  and  Graham's  Magazine, 
made  enemies  by  writing  captious  criticisms  about  his  brother  authors, 
and  was  himself  his  own  worst  enemy.  "  The  rest  is  silence."  Tamar- 
lane  atid  Other  Poems,  1827  ;  Al  Araaf,  Tamarlane  a?id  Mi?ior  Poems, 
1829  ;  Poems,  1831  ;  The  A'arrative  of  Arthur  Gordon  Pym,  1838  ;  Tales 
of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,  1839;  Poems,  1845;  Eureka,  1848. 

Holmes.  Born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  A  witty  and  ingenu- 
ous writer  in  verse  and  prose,  he  was  educated  as  a  physician,  and  filled 
for  thirty-five  years  the  chair  of  Anatomy  and  Physiology  in  the  Medical 
School  attached  to  Harvard  College.  His  non-professional  writings  are 
Poetns,  1836  ;  Urania,  a  Rhymed  Lesson,  1842  ;  Astrea,  The  Balance  of 
Illusions,  1850;  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast-Table,  i^S^;  The  Profes- 
sor at  the  Breakfast-Table,  1859;  Elsie  Venner,  A  Romance  of  Destiny, 
1861  ;  Songs  in  Many  Keys,  1861  ;  The  Guardian  Angel,  1867;  The  Poet 
at  the  Breakfast-Table,  1873;  Songs  of  Many  Seasons,  1874;  The  Iron 
Gate  and  other  Poems,  1880. 


NOTES.  321 

Tennyson.  His  first  verse  in  Poems  by  two  Brothers  (Alfred  and 
Charles).  Poems  chiefly  lyrical,  2  vols.,  1830;  with  additions  in  1832, 
and  again  in  1840  to  1846;  the  Princess,  1847  ;  with  the  Songs,  1S50  ;  In 
Mcmoriam,  1850  ;  Maud,  1855  ;  Idylls  of  the  Kin^,  part  published  in  1859, 
completed  in  1872;  Enoch  Arden,  1864;  Lucretius,  1868;  Queen  Mary, 
1875  ;  Harold,  1877. 

MiLNES.  Historical  Poems,  1835  ;  Poems  of  Many  Years,  1838  ;  Poetry 
for  the  People,  1840. 

Thackeray.  The  Chronicle  of  the  Drum;  the  Great  Cossack  Epic 
(the  Legend  of  St.  Sophia  of  Kioff )  ;  the  Poet?ts  of  the  Molony  of  Kilbally- 
violony  ;  the  Ballads  of  Policeman  X ;  etc. 

Doyle.     The  Return  of  the  Guards  and  other  poems,  1866. 

Moyse  was  a  private  in  the  regiment  of  the  ''  Kentish  Buffs."  Taken 
prisoner,  along  with  some  Sikh  soldiers,  by  the  Chinese,  he  was  or- 
dered to  perform  Kotoo.  Looking  on  it  as  a  degradation,  the  Englishman 
refused. 

Domett.  Flotsam  and  yetsam^  Rhymes  old  and  new,  1834  to  1875. 
Venice,  1839.     Panolf  and  Amohia,  1877. 

Browning  (Mrs.).  Protnethetis  Bound,  from  /Eschylus,  translated  be- 
fore she  was  twenty,  published  with  other  poems  in  1833.  The  Seraphim, 
1838;  A  Drama  of  Exile  and  other  poems,  1844;  Casa  Guidi  Windows, 
1851  ;  Aurora  Leigh,  1856  ;  Poems  before  Congress,  i860.  Her  Sonnets 
''from  the  Portuguese"  (a  modest  mask  of  her  own  identity),  are  the 
fullest  expression  of  womanly  love  ever  written,  as  Sidney's  may  be 
taken  for  the  manly  correspondence. 

Brow^ning  (Robert).  Paracelsus,  1835 ;  Strafford,  1837 ;  Sordello, 
1840;  Bells  and  Pomegranates,  1841  to  1846  (containing  the  Ectur?t  of  the 
Druses,  A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,  Colombe  s  Birthday^  Luria,  and  other 
poems);  Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day,  1850;  Men  and  Women,  1855; 
The  Ring  and  the  Book^  1868  ;  Prince  Hohenstiel-Schwangan — Saviour  of 
Society^  1871  ;  Fifitic  at  the  Fair,  1872  ;  Balaustion's  Adventure,  1871, — 
The  Last  Adventure,  1875 ;  Red  Cotton  Night-cap  Country,  1873  ;  the  hin 
Album,  1875  ;  Pacchiarotto,  1876  ;  La  Saisiaz,  the  Two  Poets  of  Croisic, 
1878  ;  Dramatic  Idylls,  1879  ;  J'ocoseria,  1882. 

There  are  at  least  three  versions,  apparently  by  Browning  himself,  of 
the  second  stanza  of  the  Lost  Leader.     Our  text  seems  to  be  the  latest. 
IL— 21 


322 


NOTES. 


NiCOLL.  Born  at  Auchtergaven,  Perthshire.  Poems  and  Lyrics,  \'?>2S- 
A  second  edition,  with  additions,  in  1842,  after  his  death. 

Sleesly  ;  parockin—pa.nsh  ;  paik— tease  ;  s^ai— wept  ;  limmer—vW- 
lain  ;  weans — children  ;  douceseATsXe  ;  starnies—%tzxh  ;  wale — choicest  ; 
j^^/_gate  ;  haffets—t\ve  temples  ;  /^ar^— grizzled  ;  bent—t\\Q.  rough  grass 
on  the  hill-side. 

Davis.  Born  at  Mallow,  Cork  County.  Another  of  the  Irish  patriotic 
singers  of  1842-48.  Most  and  the  best  of  his  songs  treat  of  historical  sub- 
jects. 

Scott  (William  Bell).  Born  at  Edinburgh.  A  painter  and  engraver 
of  eminence,  and  writer  upon  Art.  As  a  poet  only  known  to  the  "  fit  au- 
dience though  few."  He  has  published  Hades  or  the  Transit,  1838  ;  The 
Year  0/ the  World,  a  philosophical  poem,  1846  ;  Poems  by  a  Painter,  1854  ; 
Poems,  1875  ;  and  a  Poet's  Harvest  Home,  1882. 

Linton.  Engraver  and  political  writer.  In  poetry  Bob  Thin,  a  poor- 
law  tale,  1845  ;  the  Plaint  of  Frcedotn,  1852;  Poems,  1865;  and  verses  in 
the  Irish  A'atioti  and  elsewhere. 

De  Vere.  Irish-born,  but  descended  from  one  of  Cromwell's  officers, 
named  Hunt,  who  had  a  grant  of  lands  in  Ireland  and  settled  there.  His 
works,  dating  from  1842,  are  numerous,  generally  inspired  by  pious 
Catholic  and  patriotic  Irish  feeling.  The  Waldenses,  or  the  Fall  of  Rora  ; 
the  Infant  Bridal ;  the  Search  after  Proserpine ;  May  Carols  (poems  to 
the  Virgin  Mary)  ;  the  Sisters ;  Inisfail ;  Legends  of  St.  Patrick;  Le- 
gends of  Saxon  Saints ;  Alexander  the  Great;  etc. 

BURBiDGE.  College  companion  and  friend  of  Clough,  with  whom  in 
1S48  he  brought  out  a  book  of  poems,  Ambarvalia.  He  wrote  also  the 
Bridal  of  Ravejina  (with  other  juvenile  poems),  1838;  zxid.  Hymns  and 
Days,  1851.     He  is  now  British  chaplain  at  Palermo. 

Rosenberg.  Born  at  Bath,  but  emigrated  to  America.  Author  of 
Tiberius  and  other  unpublished  plays,  but  only  known  as  a  miscellaneous 
writer  in  American  newspapers  and  magazines. 

Sutton.  Clifton  Grove;  and  some  verses  in  Quinqucnergia,  an  essay 
toward  a  new  religion,  1854. 


NOTES.  323 

Weldon,  an  Englishman  (the  name  perhaps  only  a  pseudonym), 
wrote  some  short  poems  over  the  signature  O.  O.  in  the  New  York  Trib- 
wu,  between  1850  and  1856. 

Clough.  One  very  notable  poem,  the  Bothie of  Tober-na-Vuolich,  a 
long-vacation  pastoral,  1848  ;  Poetical  Remains,  1869. 

After  Charles  Albert's  defeat  at  Novara,  the  inhabitants  at  Brescia 
nevertheless  rose  against  the  Austrian  garrison,  on  the  21st  of  March, 

1849. 

Howe.  Mrs.  Howe  was  born  in  New  York  City.  Passion  Flowers, 
1854  ;  Words  for  the  Hour,  1856  ;  The  World's  Own,  1857  ;  Hippolytiis,  a 
Tragedv,  1858  ;  A  Trip  to  Cuba,  1859  ;  Later  Lyrics,  1866  ;  From  the  Oak 
to  the  Olive,  1868. 

Whitman.  Born  at  West  Hills,  New  York.  Leaves  of  Grass,  1855 ; 
Drum  Taps,  1865;  Specimen  Days,  and  a  Collect,  1883. 

Parsons.  Bom  at  Boston,  Massachusetts.  Translation  of  the  First 
Ten  Cantos  of  the  Inferno  of  Dante,  1843  ;  Poems,  1854  ;  The  Magnolia, 
1866  ;    The  First  Canticle  {Inferno)  of  the  Divine  Comedy,  1867. 

KiNGSLEY.  Born  in  Devonshire  ;  Vicar  of  Eversley  in  Hampshire. 
Novelist,  and  poet  if  only  for  the  songs  in  his  novels.  But  he  also  wrote 
the  Saint's  Tragedy,  a  drama  of  mediaeval  time,  1848  ;  and  Andromeda,  a 
sustained  poem,  1858.     His  collected  poems  were  published  in  1872. 

Lewes.  Mary  Ann  Evans  (Mrs.  Lewes).  The  Spanish  Gypsy,  1868; 
the  Legend  of  J'ubal  and  other  poems,  1874. 

Lowell  (James  Russell).  Born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts.  A 
Year's  Life,  184 1  ;  Poems,  1844;  Conversations  on  some  of  the  Old  Poets, 
1845  ;  Poe^ns,  1848  ;  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal,  1848  ;  A  Fable  for  Critics, 
1848  ;  The  Bigloiu  Papers,  First  Series,  1848  ;  Fireside  Travels,  1864  ; 
Biglow  Papers,  Second  Series,  1867 ;  Under  the  Willows  and  Other 
Poems,  1868  ;  The  Cathedral,  1869  ;  Among  My  Books,  1870  ;  My  Study 
Windows,  1870. 

Lowell  (Maria  White).  Born  at  Watertown,  Massachusetts.  The 
first  wife  of  J.  R.  Lowell. 


324  NOTES. 

Wallace.  Born  at  Lexington,  Kentucky.  Alban,  a  Poetical  Romance, 
1848  ;  Meditations  in  America  and  Other  Poems,  1851. 

Jones.  A  single  volume  of  poems,  Studies  of  Scnsatioti  and  Event, 
1843  ;  republished  in  1879. 

McCarthy.  Another  poet  of  the  Irish  Nation.  Born  in  Dublin. 
Poems  and  Ballads,  translated  and  original,  1850 ;  Under-gli7npses  and 
other  poems,  and  the  Bell-Founder,  1857  ;  translations  from  Calderon. 

Locker.  London  Lyrics,  1862  ;  Lyra  Elegantiaruin,  1867  ;  Patchwork 
(prose  and  verse),  1879. 

Cary  (Alice).  Born  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio.  Clovcrnook  Papers,  First 
Series,  1851  ;  Hagar,  a  Story  of  To-Day^  1852  ;  Clovernook  Papers,  Second 
Series,  1853  ;  Lyra  and  Other  Poems,  1853  ;  Clovernook  Children,  1854  ; 
Married,  not  Mated,  1856  ;  Pictures  of  Country  Life,  1859  ;  Lyrics  and 
Hymns,  1866  ;  The  Bishop's  Son,  1867  ;  The  Lover's  Diary,  1867  ;  Snow 
Berries,  i86g. 

Cary  (Phoebe).  Sister  of  Alice,  and  bom  at  the  same  place.  Poems 
and  Parodies,  1854;  Poems  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  1868. 

Arnold  (Matthew).  Poet,  essayist,  critic.  His  chief  poems  are  Soh- 
rab  and  Pus  tarn;  Tristan  and  Iseult ;  Balder  dead;  the  Scholar  Gypsy; 
Thy r sis  ;  F.tnpedocles  on  ^tna  ;  and  Merope,  a  tragedy. 

Cory.  William  Johnson,  a  master  at  Eton,  changed  his  name  to  Cory. 
He  published  a  small  collection  of  poems,  lonica,  in  1858  ;  and  printed 
privately  a  few  more  in  1877.  Mimnermus  was  a  Greek  elegiac  and 
amatory  poet  of  the  time  of  Solon. 

DOBELL.  The  Roman,  1850 ;  Balder,  1853  ;  Poems  collected  after  his 
death. 

Brownell.  Born  in  New  York  City.  Poems,  1849  ;  Lyrics  of  a  Day, 
1864 ;  War  Lyrics  and  Other  Poems,  1866. 

Curtis.  Born  at  Providence,  Rhode  Island.  A^ile  Notes  of  a  Ho- 
wadji,  1851  ;  The  Howadji  in  Syria,  1852  ;  Lotus  Eating,  1852  ;  Potiphar 
Papers,  1853  ;  Prue  and  I,  1856  ;    Trumps,  1861. 


NOTES.  325 

McGee.  Born  at  Carlingford,  Ireland.  Was  associate  editor  with 
Charles  Gavan  Duffy  of  the  Irish  Nation  ;  and  poetical  contributor  to  its 
columns.  He  emigrated  to  America,  settling  finally  in  Canada,  where 
he  was  assassinated  on  account  of  his  opposition  to  Fenianism.  His  col- 
lected poems  were  published  in  New  York,  in  1869. 

Taylor  (Bayard).  Born  in  Pennsylvania.  Zimena,  1844 ;  Views 
a-Foot,  1846  ;  Rkytnes  of  Travel,  1848  ;  El  Dorado,  1850  ;  The  American 
Legend,  1850  ;  Book  of  Romances,  Lyrics,  and  Songs^  1851  ;  A  yourncy  to 
Central  Africa,  1854  ;  Poetns  and  Ballads,  1854  ;  The  Lands  of  the  Sara~ 
cen,  1854  ;  A  Visit  to  India,  China,  and  yapan,  1855  ;  Poems  of  the  Orient, 
1855  ;  Poems  of  Home  and  Travel,  1855  ;  Northern  Travel,  1857  ;  Travels 
in  Greece  and  Russia,  1859  ;  At  Home  and  Abroad,  First  Series,  1859;  At 
Home  and  Abroad,  Second  Series,  1862;  The  Poet's  yournal,  1862;  Han- 
nah  Thurston,  1863  ;  yohn  Godfrey's  Fortunes,  1864  ;  The  Story  of  Ken- 
nett,  1866  ;  The  Picture  of  St.  yohn^  1866  ;  Byways  of  Europe,  1869  ;  The 
Ballad  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  1869;  Joseph  and  His  Friend,  1870;  Trans- 
lation of  Goethe's  Faust  (both  parts),  1871 ;  Beauty  and  the  Beast,  1872; 
77^1?  Masque  of  the  Gods,  1872  ;  Lars,  1873  ;  The  Prophet,  a  Tragedy,  1874  ; 
Home  Pastorals,  Ballads,  and  Lyrics,  1875  ;  Prince  Deucalion,  1878. 

Stoddard  (R.  H.).  Born  at  Hingham,  Massachusetts.  Footprints, 
1849 ;  Poem-s,  1852  ;  Adventures  in  Fairy  La?!d,  1853  ;  Songs  of  Summer, 
1857  ;  The  King's  Bell,  1862  ;  The  Story  of  Little  Red  Riding  Hood,  1863  ; 
The  Children  in  the  Wood,  1864  ;  Abrahafn  Lificoln,  an  Horatia7i  Ode, 
1865  ;  Putnam  the  Brave,  1869  ;    The  Book  of  the  East,  1871  ;  Poems,  1880. 

Stoddard  (E.  D.  B.).  Born  at  Mattapoisett,  Massachusetts.  The 
Morgesons,  1862 ;  Two  Men,  1865  ;  Temple  House,  1867 ;  Lolly  Dinks' 
Doings,  1874. 

Procter  (Adelaide).  Daughter  of  B.  W.  Procter  ("  Barry  Corn- 
wall"). Poems  in  H'lcVtri^'  Household  PVords,  the  first  by  "  Miss  Ber- 
wick "  in  1853  ;  Legends  and  Lyrics,  two  series,  1858  and  1861  ;  A  Chaplet 
of  Verses,  1862. 

Larcom.  Miss  Larcom  was  born  in  Massachusetts.  An  Idyl  of  Work, 
1875  ;  Poems,  1878  ;  Wild  Roses  of  Cape  Ann  and  Other  Poems,  1881 ; 
Childhood' s  Songs,  1883. 

Collins.  Idylls  and  Rhy7nes,  1855  ;  Summer  Songs,  i860  ;  the  Inn  of 
Strange  Meetings  and  other  poems,  1871. 


326  NOTES. 

Alltngham.  Born  at  Ballyshannon,  Ireland.  Poems,  1850 ;  Day  and 
Night  Songs,  1854  ;  Lawrence  Bloomfield  in  Ireland,  a  descriptive  poem 
characteristic  of  Irish  life,  1869  ;  Songs  and  Ballads,  1877. 

MUNBY.  Bejtoni,  1852;  Elegiacs,  1859;  Verses  N^cw  and  Old,  1865; 
Dorothy,  a  country  story,  1880. 

RossETTi  (Dante  Gabriel).  Painter  and  Poet.  Notable  as  the  founder 
of  the  pre-Raftaelite  school  of  painting  in  England.  His  poetical  works 
are  Ballads  and  Songs ;  the  House  of  Life,  a  series  of  sonnets  ;  and 
Translations  from  the  early  Italian  poets,  and  of  the  Vita  Nuova  of 
Dante. 

RossETTi  (Christina).  The  sister  of  Dante  Gabriel.  Goblin  Market ; 
the  Prince's  Progress  ;  and  miscellaneous  poems,  1862-18S1. 

Ingelow.     Poetns,  1863  ;  A  Story  of  Doom,  1867. 

Stkdman.  Born  at  Hartford,  Connecticut.  Poems  Lyrical  arid  Idyllic, 
i860  ;  Alice  of  Mo7tmoiith  and  Other  Poems,  1864  ;  The  Blameless  Prince 
a?id  Other  Poems,  1869  ;  Poetical  Works,  1873;  The  Victorian  Poets,  1875  ; 
Hawthortie  and  Other  Poems,  1877. 

Arnold  (George).  Born  in  New  York  City.  Drift  and  Other  Poems, 
1866  ;  Poetns  Grave  and  Gay,  1867. 

NicHOL.  Born  at  Montrose.  Hannibal,  an  historical  drama ;  the 
Death  of  Themistocles,  and  other  poems,  1881. 

Morris  (Lewis).  Songs  of  Two  Worlds,  1871  ;  The  Epic  of  Hades, 
1877  ;    Owen,  1879  ;    The  Ode  of  Life,  1880. 

Jackson.  Mrs.  Jackson  (her  earlier  poems  "  by  H.  H.,"  Mrs.  Hunt) 
was  born  at  Amherst,  Massachusetts.      Verses,  1870. 

Morris  (William).  The  Defence  of  Guinevere  and  other  poems,  1858  ; 
the  Life  and  Death  of  yason,  1867;  the  Earthly  Paradise,  1868-70;  Love 
is  enough,  1873  ;  the  Story  of  Sigurd,  1876. 

Piatt.  Born  at  Jackson,  Indiana.  Nests  at  Washington  and  Other 
Poems,  1864  ;  Poems  in  Sunshine  and  Firelight,  1866  ;  Western  Windows 
and  Other  Poems,  1869;  Landmarks  and  Other  Poems,  1871. 


NOTES.  327 

Thaxter.  Mrs.  Thaxter.  Born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire. 
Poetns,  1874. 

WiLLSON.      The  Old  Sargeant  and  Other  Poems,  1867. 

Winter.  Born  at  Gloucester,  Massachusetts.  My  Witness,  a  Book 
of  Verse,  1871. 

Aldrich.  Born  at  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire.  The  Bells,  1854  ; 
Daisy's  Necklace,  and  What  Ca7ne  of  it,  1856;  The  Ballad  of  Babie  Bell 
and  Other  Poems,  1858  ;  The  Course  of  True  Love  7iever  did  Run  Smoothly, 
1858  ;  Patnpinea  and  Other  Poems,  1861  ;  Out  of  His  Head,  1862  ;  Poems, 
1863  ;  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,  1869  ;  Marjorie  Daw  and  Other  People, 
1873  ;  Cloth  of  Gold,  1873  ;  Prudence  Palfrey,  1874  ;  Flower  and  Thorn, 
1877 ;  The  Queen  of  Sheba,  1877 ;  The  Stillwater  Tragedy,  1880 ;  Poe?ns, 
1882  ;  From  Poukapog  to  Pesth,  1883. 

Garnett.  Primrila,  1858 ;  lo  in  Egypt  and  other  poems,  1S59 ; 
Translations  from  the  German,  1862 ;  Idylls  and  Epigi-ams,  from  the 
Greek  Anthology,  1869.  Since  1875  Mr.  Garnett  has  been  Superinten- 
dent of  the  Reading  Room  at  the  British  Museum. 

Ashe.  The  Rev.  Thomas  Ashe  has  written  Poetns,  1859  ;  Sorrows  of 
Hypsipyle,  a  drama,  1866  ;  Edith,  1873 ;  Songs  JVow  and  Then,  1876. 

Swinburne.  The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond,  1861  ;  Chastelard ; 
Atalanta  in  Calydon,  1864  ;  Poems  and  Ballads,  1866 ;  A  Song  of  Italy, 
1867  ;  Songs  before  Sunrise,  1871  ;  Bothtoell,  1874  ;  Songs  of  Two  Nations, 
1875  ;  Erechtheus,  1876  ;  Poems  and  Ballads  (second  series),  1878  ;  Songs 
of  the  Spring-tides,  1880  ;  Mary  Stuart,  1881  ;    Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  1882. 

Thomson.  Born  at  Port  Glasgow.  The  Doom  of  a  City ;  Bertram  to 
the  Lady  Geraldine  ;  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  of  Indolence  ;  Vane's  Story  ; 
Sunday  at  Hampstead ;  Sunday  up  the  River  ;  the  City  of  Dreadful  Alight 
(written  between  1870  and  1874,  and  published  in  1880);  and  other  poems. 

Hay.  Born  at  Salem,  Indiana.  Pike  County  Ballads  and  other  Pieces, 
1871  ;   Castilian  Days,  1872. 

DOBSON.  Vignettes  in  Rhyme,  1874  ;  Proverbs  in  Porcelain,  1877 ; 
Latter-day  Lyrics,  1878. 


328  NOTES. 

Buchanan.  The  collected  edition  of  his  poetical  works  (he  is  also 
well  known  as  a  novelist),  comprises  Ballads  and  Poems  of  Life  ;  London 
Lyrics,  1866;  Sonnets;  Political  Mystics ;  and  a  long  Ossianic  poem,  the 
Book  of  Orm. 

Bridges.    Poetns,  1873. 

GossE.  Madrigals,  Songs,  and  Sonnets^  1870  ;  Oti  Viol  and  Flute,  1873  ; 
King  Erik,  a  drama,  1876  ;  /Vew  Poems,  1879. 

Marzials.      The  Gallery  of  Pigeons,  1873. 

Bbatty.  To  my  Lady,  1878;  Three  Women  of  the  People,  1881 ;  Mar' 
cia,  a  tragedy. 

Lang.  Ballads  and  Lyrics  of  Old  France^  1872;  the  Prince  of  Omur, 
and  other  poems,  1880  ;  XXII  Ballades  in  Blue  China^  1880  ;  XXII  and 
X,  1881  ;  Helen  of  Troy,  1882. 

Davies.     Songs  of  a  Wayfarer,  1869  ;  the  Shepherd's  Garden,  1873. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

A  bird  sang  sweet  and  strong 252 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 61 

Above  yon  sombre  swell  of  land 13S 

A  despot  gazed  on  sunset  clouds 133 

Ah,  Marian  mine  !  the  face  you  look  on  now 64 

Ah  !  my  heart  is  weary  waiting 238 

Alas  for  me  that  my  love  is  dead  !  279 

A  little  marsh-plant,  yellow  green 297 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 19 

Although  I  enter  not 182 

A  man  there  came,  whence  none  could  tell 264 

And  thou  art  dead  !  as  young  and  fair 80 

A  place  in  thy  memory,  Dearest ! 141 

A  Poppy  grows  upon  the  shore 307 

Arise,  my  slumbering  soul !  arise  ! i43 

As  a  twig  trembles  which  a  bird 233 

A  sentinel  angel  sitting  high  in  glory 302 

A  sigh  in  the  morning  grey 206 

As  upland  fields  were  sun-burn'd  brown 125 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay i57 

A  thousand  miles  from  land  are  we 69 

At  the  king's  gate  the  subtle  Noon 280 

Awake  thee,  my  Lady-Love  ! 66 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  Maid  ! 32 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! I93 

Beautiful  Things  of  Old  !  why  are  ye  gone  for  ever 150 

Before  I  trust  my  fate  to  thee 261 


330  INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

Before  our  Lady  came  on  earth 282 

Beloved  the  last !  beloved  the  most  !   41 

Beneath  the  poplars  o'er  the  sacred  pool 308 

Beneath  this  starry  arch 129 

Bird  of  the  wilderness  ! 35 

Blessed  Hours  !  approach  her  gently 201 

Blue  gulf  all  around  us 249 

Bonnie  Bessie  Lee  had  a  face  fu'  o'  smiles 19S 

Bring  the  bright  garlands  hither  ! 52 

Burly,  dozing  Humble-Bee  ! 138 

By  a  kirk-yard  yett  I  stood 196 

Cold  blovirs  the  wind  against  the  hill 291 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning 197 

Come,  my  tan-faced  children  ! 214 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  say 309 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children  ! 161 

Come  up  from  the  fields.  Father  !  here's  a  letter 219 

Could  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 268 

Day  and  night  my  thoughts  incline 259 

Day  Stars  !  that  ope  your  frownless  eyes  to  twinkle 55 

Dear  Love  !  I  have  not  ask'd  you  yet 292 

Fair  is  the  night  and  fair  the  day 281 

False  Friend  !  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep  ? 91 

Far  out  at  sea, — the  sun  was  high 132 

Fast  falls  the  snow,  O  Lady  mine  ! 263 

First  time  he  kiss'd  me,  he  but  only  kiss'd 191 

Flowers!  winter  flowers  !  The  child  is  dead 57 

From  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 255 

Fu'  ripe,  ripe,  was  her  rosy  lip 196 

Glass  antique !  'twixt  thee  and  Nell 144 

God  makes  sech  nights,  all  white  an'  still 229 

Go  from  me  !  Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 190 

Golden-bill !  Golden-bill ! 34 

Good-night !    I  have  to  say  good-night 290 

Go  where  the  water  glideth  gently  ever iii 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass 63 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES.  33 1 

FACE 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 85 

Hark  !  ah,  the  Nightingale ! 243 

Hear  the  sledges  with  the  bells  ! 169 

Helen  !  thy  beauty  is  to  me 172 

He  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold 287 

Here  in  this  leafy  place 303 

Here  is  the  place  :  right  over  the  hill 163 

Here  she  lieth,  white  and  chill 289 

Hesperus  !  hail !  thy  winking  light 40 

Ho,  pretty  Page  with  the  dimpled  chin  ! 183 

Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea  ! 248 

Hour  after  hour  departs no 

How  joyously  the  young  Sea-Mew 188 

How  many  summers.  Love  ! 75 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee  ?  Dear  ! 131 

Hush,  the  homeless  baby's  crying ! 262 


I  am  Achilles.     Thou  wast  hither  brought  203 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 88 

I  ask'd  my  Fair,  one  happy  day 23 

I  bend  above  the  moving  stream 134 

I  can  not  forget  my  jo   246 

If  e'er  she  knew  an  evil  thought 60 

If  I  desire  with  pleasant  songs 206 

If  you  become  a  Nun,  Dear  ! 63 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions 38 

I  lean'd  out  of  window 273 

I  like  a  church,  I  like  a  cowl 136 

I  like  not  lady-slippers 290 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet,  now  he  is  gone 42 

I  love  him,  I  dream  of  him 7^ 

In  schools  of  wisdom  all  the  day  was  spent 16S 

In  Spring  the  poet  is  glad 287 

In  the  days  of  old 68 

Into  the  sunshine 232 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 119 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet 22S 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air 156 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ! 17 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 123 


332  INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

I've  wander'd  East,  I've  wander'd  West 113 

I  wander'd  by  the  brook-side 180 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 191 

Kiss  no  more  the  Vintages  ! 124 

Lady  !  wouldst  thou  heiress  be 121 

Last  night,  among  his  fellow  roughs 184 

Last  time  I  parted  from  my  Dear 200 

Laugh  out,  O  stream  !  from  your  bed  of  green 241 

Let  Time  and  Chance  combine,  combine  ! 109 

Let  us  sing  and  sigh  ! 73 

Little  Mary  Anerley,  sitting  on  the  stile  ! 267 

Long  night  succeeds  thy  little  day 69 

Love  laid  down  his  golden  head 205 

Love,  on  the  earth  alit 299 

Man  is  permitted  much 127 

Medrake,  waving  wide  wings 285 

Methought  I  saw  the  footsteps  of  a  throne 19 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  , 213 

Mistress  of  Gods  and  men  !  I  have  been  thine 200 

More  than  the  wind,  more  than  the  snow 237 

Mother  !  I  can  not  mind  my  wheel 43 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  pass'd 28 

My  heart  is  freighted  full  of  love  181 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 17 

My  only  Love  is  always  near 240 

My  thoughts  by  night  are  often  fiU'd 68 

Next  to  thee,  O  fair  Gazelle  ! 256 

Night  closed  around  the  conqueror's  way 54 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill 166 

Nor  happiness,  nor  majesty,  nor  fame 91 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note 102 

Not  a  sob,  not  a  tear  be  spent 251 

Not  in  the  sky 153 

Not  in  the  solitude 106 

Now  tell  me,  my  merry  woodman ! 286 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES.  333 

PAGE 

O  bear  him  where  the  rain  can  fall ! 59 

O  brooding  Spirit  of  Wisdom  and  of  Love  ! 148 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain 18 

O'er  wayward  childhood  would'st  thou  hold  firm  rule 24 

Of  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told. 270 

O  fair  and  stately  Maid  !  whose  eyes 140 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 44 

O  Friend  !  whom  glad  or  grave  we  seek 64 

Often  have  I  heard  it  said 41 

O  Mary  !  go  and  call  the  cattle  home  ! 226 

Once  a  rose  ever  a  rose,  we  say 201 

Once,  when  the  days  were  ages 257 

One  more  Unfortunate  116 

On  me,  on  me 135 

O  Reader  !  hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 26 

O  sair  I  rue  the  witless  wish 28 

O,  Sorrow  !   94 

O  the  sight  entrancing  ! 53 

O  Thou  that  art  our  Queen  again ! 62 

O  Thou  !  whose  mighty  palace-roof  doth  hang 92 

Our  life  is  spent  in  little  things 278 

O  'Warrior  for  the  Right ! 304 

O,  what  are  you  waiting  for  here  ?  young  man  ! 301 

O  what  will  a'  the  lads  do  ? 36 

Peace  be  around  thee  wherever  thou  rovest ! 52 

Peace  in  her  chamber,  whereso'er 270 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu  ! 30 

Poor  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  race  ! 23 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 275 

Proserpine  may  pull  her  flowers 130 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood 33 

Rains  fall,  suns  shine,  winds  flee 74 

Rough  Wind  !  that  moanest  loud 92 

Rushes  lean  over  the  water 251 

Said  Fading-Leaf  to  Fallen-Leaf 292 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth 213 

Say  over  again,  and  yet  once  over  again  ! 190 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness  1 100 


334  INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 

PAGE 

Seek  not  the  tree  of  silkiest  bark  ! 203 

Send  the  red  wine  round  to-night  ! 70 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 112 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn 122 

She  stood  where  I  had  used  to  wait 265 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 83 

She  was  not  fair,  nor  full  of  grace 74 

She  wears  a  rose  in  her  hair 259 

Should  I  long  that  dark  were  fair  ? 227 

Show  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time  ! 10 

Since,  if  you  stood  by  my  side  to-day 242 

Sing ! — who  sings 72 

Sister  Simplicitie  ! 246 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn •. .  165 

Soft  hangs  the  opiate  in  the  brain 233 

Softly  breathes  the  West  wind  beside  the  ruddy  forest io3 

Softly,  O  midnight  Hours  ! 205 

So  strive,  so  rule.  Almighty  Lord  of  All !  210 

Stern  daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 7 

Still  glides  the  gentle  streamlet  on 122 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road 162 

Suck,  baby  !  suck  !  mother's  love  grows  by  giving 39 

Sweet !  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart 187 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  Western  wave  ! 89 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean 179 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard 2S8 

The  conference-meeting  through  at  last 274 

The  day  is  cold  and  dark  and  dreary 160 

The  Earth  was  but  a  platform  for  thy  power 136 

The  flash  at  midnight, — 'twas  a  light 35 

The  golden  gates  of  sleep  unbar 90 

The  grey  sea  and  the  long  black  land 194 

The  Happy  Land ! 202 

The  Isles  of  Greece !  the  Isles  of  Greece  ! 77 

The  laurels  shine  in  the  morning  sun 277 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 271 

The  morning  broke,  and  Spring  was  there 125 

The  moth's  kiss  first ! 192 

Then  fare  thee  well,  my  own  dear  Love  ! 51 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon 156 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES.  335 

rAcr; 

The  Poem  of  the  Universe 211 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead 101 

The  Prophet  once,  sitting  in  calm  debate 253 

The  rain  had  fallen  ;  the  Poet  arose 179 

The  Raven's  house  is  built  with  reeds 252 

There  is  a  bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 18 

The  sad  and  solemn  Night 107 

These  many  years  since  we  began  to  be 298 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast 159 

The  shadows  lay  along  Broadway 155 

The  streams  that  wind  amid  the  hills 66 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France 65 

The  trees  in  Sherwood  Forest  are  old  and  good iii 

The  truth  lies  round  about  us 240 

The  woods  decay,  the  woods  decay  and  fall 174 

They  bear  the  hero  from  the  fight,  dying 148 

They  say  his  sin  was  dark  and  deep 146 

They  say  'tis  a  sin  to  sorrow 147 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 141 

Think  not  alone  to  do  right  and  fulfil 310 

This  is  the  Ship  of  Pearl  which  (poets  feign) 173 

This  world  is  too  much  with  us :  late  and  soon 17 

Thou  art  mine,  thou  hast  given  thy  word 276 

Thou  blossom  !  bright  with  autumn  dew 105 

Thou  little  bird  !  thou  dweller  by  the  sea  ! 76 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness  ! 98 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 9 

Thy  days  are  done,  thy  fame  begun 82 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows 58 

Thy  functions  are  ethereal i 

'Tis  thought  Odysseus  when  the  strife  was  o'er 309 

'Tis  time  this  heart  should  be  unmoved 84 

To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than  Spring 271 

To-day  what  is  there  in  the  air 308 

To  sea !  to  sea !     The  calm  is  o'er 131 

Twin  stars  aloft  in  ether  clear 227 

Under  a  sultry  yellow  sky 260 

Underneath  the  beechen  tree 284 

Underneath  the  growing  grass 272 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  Princely  Heart ! 189 


336 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying 25 

Wail  for  Daedalus,  all  that  is  fairest ! 151 

Wail !  wail  ye  o'er  the  Dead  ! 67 

Wake  from  your  homes  in  tomb  and  shroud  ! 207 

Warriors  and  chiefs  !  should  the  shaft  or  the  sword 82 

Wasted,  weary,  wherefore  stay 33 

Weep  not  for  me  ! 128 

Welcome,  wild  North-Easter  1 224 

What  is  it  to  grow  old  ? 244 

What  matter,  what  matter,  O  friend  ! 185 

What's  hallow'd  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 48 

What  shall  we  do  now,  Mary  being  dead 221 

What  voice  did  on  my  spirit  fall  ? 211 

What  was  he  doing  ?  the  great  God  Pan 186 

When  from  the  child,  that  still  is  led 126 

When  gloaming  treads  the  heels  of  day 29 

When  I  am  dead,  my  Dearest ! 272 

When  I  was  young,  I  said  to  Sorrow 204 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 27 

When  the  hounds  of  Spring  are  on  Winter's  traces 295 

When  the  world  is  burning 237 

When  to  any  saint  I  pray 221 

Where  art  thou  gone  ?  light-ankled  Youth  ! 43 

Where  shall  we  make  her  grave  ? 103 

White  rose  in  red  rose  garden 293 

Whither  is  gone  the  wisdom  and  the  power  ? 112 

Whither,  'midst  falling  dew 104 

Who  breathes  to  thee  the  holiest  prayer 44 

W'ho  is  this  that  comes  from  Hara  ? 235 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ?  Lady  ! 31 

With  l)lackest  moss  the  flower  plots 176 

Within  a  low-thatched  hut,  built  in  a  lane 149 

Within  the  unchanging  twilight 198 

Ye  Mariners  of  England  !  46 

You  never  bade  me  hope,  'tis  true 142 

You  promise  heavens  free  from  strife 245 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


•m  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


UNIVEKrrY  OF  c^A^Wnia 


_EE- 


1173 
V.2 


l.int.nn  - 
English  verse 


PR 

1173 
L65e 
v.2 


REGIONAL  LlBBARV.fffl;(ll 


UC SOUTHERN 

f^f^      '060  304  910    3 


'Mm 


mm 


